THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,  Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


,    ' 


ON    SOMETHING 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

PARIS 

HILLS  AND  THE  SEA 

EMMANUEL  BURDEN,  MERCHANT 

A  CHANGE  IN  THE  CABINET 

THE  PYRENEES 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE 

ON  NOTHING 

ON  EVERYTHING 


ON    SOMETHING 

BY 
H.    BELLOC 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

31  WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET 
1911 


SfacK 
Annex 


\°U\ 


DEDICATION 

To 
Somebody 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  SIMPLER  DRAMA  .  .  i 

ON  A  NOTEBOOK  .  .  .  .  .n 

ON  UNKNOWN  PEOPLE  .  .  .  .20 

ON  A  VAN  TROMP  .  .  .  .  .28 

His  CHARACTER  .  .  .  .  .40 

ON  THRUPPENNY  BITS  .  .  .  .48 

ON  THE  HOTEL  AT  PALMA  AND  A  PROPOSED 

GUIDE-BOOK  .  .  .  .  -55 

THE  DEATH  OF  WANDERING  PETER  .  .  62 

THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  .  .  71 

A  NORFOLK  MAN  .  .  .  .  .80 

THE  ODD  PEOPLE  .  .  .  .  -89 

LETTER  OF  ADVICE  AND  APOLOGY  TO  A  YOUNG 

BURGLAR  .....  too 

THE  MONKEY  QUESTION  :  AN  APPEAL  TO  COM- 

MON  SENSE  .....  106 
THE  EMPIRE  BUILDER  .  .  .  .118 

CAEDWALLA  .  .  .  .  .  .127 


On    Something 


PAGE 

A  UNIT  OF  ENGLAND           .           .           .  135 

THE  RELIC     ......  142 

THE  IRONMONGER     .....  150 

A  FORCE  IN  GAUL    .  .  .  .  -158 

ON  BRIDGES  ......  173 

A  BLUE  BOOK           .....  182 

PERIGEUX  OF  THE  PERIGORD         .           .           .  193 

THE  POSITION           .....  200 

HOME              ......  209 

THE  WAY  TO  FAIRYLAND    ....  223 

THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  CHILD            .            .            .  233 

ON  EXPERIENCE        .....  244 

ON  IMMORTALITY      .....  250 

ON  SACRAMENTAL  THINGS  ....  257 

IN  PATRIA                 ,           .  266 


OF  the  various  sketches  in  this  took  some  appear 
for  the  first  time,  others  are  reprinted  by  courtesy 
of  the  Proprietors  and  Editors  of  The  Westminster 
Gazette,  The  Clarion,  The  English  Review,  The 
Morning  Post  and  The  Manchester  Guardian,  in 
which  papers  they  appeared. 


ON   SOMETHING 


A  Plea  for  the  Simpler  Drama    ^       ^ 

T  T  is  with  the  drama  as  with  plastic  art  and 
'  many  other  things  :  the  plain  man  feels  that 
he  has  a  right  to  put  in  his  word,  but  he  is 
rather  afraid  that  the  art  is  beyond  him,  and  he 
is  frightened  by  technicalities. 

After  all,  these  things  are  made  for  the  plain 
man  ;  his  applause,  in  the  long  run  and  duly  tested 
by  time,  is  the  main  reward  of  the  di'amatist 
as  of  the  painter  or  the  sculptor.  But  if  he  is 
sensible  he  knows  that  his  immediate  judgment 
will  be  crude.  However,  here  goes. 

The  plain  man  sees  that  the  drama  of  his  time 
has  gradually  passed  from  one  phase  to  another 
of  complexity  in  thought  coupled  with  simplicity 
of  incident,  and  it  occurs  to  him  that  just  one 
further  step  is  needed  to  make  something  final  in 
British  art.  We  seem  to  be  just  on  the  threshold 
of  something  which  would  give  Englishmen  in  the 
twentieth  century  something  of  the  fullness  that 


On   Something 

characterized  the  Elizabethans  :  but  somehow  or 
other  our  dramatists  hesitate  to  cross  that 
threshold.  It  cannot  be  that  their  powers  are 
lacking :  it  can  only  be  some  timidity  or  self- 
torture  which  it  is  the  business  of  the  plain  man 
to  exorcise. 

If  I  may  make  a  suggestion  in  this  essay  to  the 
masters  of  the  craft  it  is  that  the  goal  of  the 
completely  modern  thing  can  best  be  reached  by 
taking  the  very  simplest  themes  of  daily  life — 
things  within  the  experience  of  the  ordinary 
citizen — and  presenting  them  in  the  majestic- 
traditional  cadence  of  that  peculiarly  English 
medium,  blank  verse. 

As  to  the  themes  taken  from  the  everyday  life 
of  middle  class  men  and  women  like  ourselves,  it 
is  true  that  the  lives  of  the  wealthy  afford  more 
incident,  and  that  there  is  a  sort  of  glamour  about 
them  which  it  is  difficult  to  resist.  But  with  a 
sufficient  subtlety  the  whole  poignancy  of  the 
lives  led  by  those  who  suffer  neither  the  tragedies 
of  the  poor  nor  the  exaltation  of  the  rich  can  be 
exactly  etched.  The  life  of  the  professional 
middle-class,  of  the  business  man,  the  dentist, 
the  money-lender,  the  publisher,  the  spiritual 
pastor,  nay  of  the  playwright  himself,  might  be 
put  upon  the  stage — and  what  a  vital  change 
would  be  here  !  Here  would  be  a  kind  of  literary 
drama  of  which  the  interest  would  lie  in  the 


A  Plea  for  the  Simpler  Drama 

struggle,  the  pain,  the  danger,  and  the  triumph 
which  we  all  so  intimately  know,  and  next  in  the 
satisfaction  (which  we  now  do  not  have)  of  the 
mimetic  sense — the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  mirror 
held  up  to  a  whole  audience  composed  of  the 
very  class  represented  upon  the  stage. 

I  have  seen  men  of  wealth  and  position 
absorbed  in  plays  concerning  gambling,  cruelty, 
cheating,  drunkenness,  and  other  sports,  and  so 
absorbed  chiefly  because  they  saw  themselves 
depicted  upon  the  stage  ;  and  I  ask,  Would  not 
my  fellows  and  myself  largely  remunerate  a 
similar  opportunity  ?  For  though  the  rich  go 
repeatedly  to  the  play,  yet  the  middle-class  are 
so  much  more  numerous  that  the  difference  is 
amply  compensated. 

I  think  we  may  take  it,  then,  that  an  experi- 
ment in  the  depicting  of  professional  life  would, 
even  from  the  financial  standpoint,  be  workable  ; 
and  I  would  even  go  so  far  as  to  suggest  that  a 
play  could  be  written  in  which  there  did  not 
appear  one  single  lord,  general,  Member  of  Par- 
liament, baronet,  professional  beauty,  usurer 
(upon  a  large  scale  at  least)  or  Cabinet  Minister. 

The  thing  is  possible :  and  I  can  modestly  say 
that  in  the  little  effort  appended  as  an  example 
to  these  lines  it  has  been  done  successfully ;  but 
here  must  be  mentioned  the  second  point  in  my 
thesis — I  could  never  have  achieved  what  I  have 


On  Something 

here  achieved  in  dramatic  art  had  I  not  harked 
back  to  the  great  tradition  of  the  English  heroic 
decasyllabic  such  as  our  Shakespeare  has  handled 
with  so  felicitous  an  effect. 

The  play — which  I  have  called  "The  Crisis/' 
and  which  I  design  to  be  the  model  of  the  school 
founded  by  these  present  advices — is  specially 
designed  for  acting  with  the  sumptuous  acces- 
sories at  the  disposal  of  a  great  manager,  such  as 
Mr.  (now  Sir  Henry)  Beerbohm  Tree,  or  for  the 
narrower  circumstances  of  the  suburban  drawing- 
room. 

There  is  perhaps  but  one  character  which 
needs  any  long  rehearsal,  that  of  the  dog  Fido, 
and  luckily  this  is  one  which  can  easily  be 
supplied  by  mechanical  means,  as  by  the  use  of 
a  toy  dog  of  sufficient  size  which  barks  upon  the 
pressure  of  a  pneumatic  attachment. 

In  connexion  with  this  character  I  would  have 
the  student  note  that  I  have  introduced  into  the 
dog's  part  just  before  the  curtain  a  whole  line  of 
dactyls.  I  hope  the  hint  will  not  be  wasted. 
Such  exceptions  relieve  the  monotony  of  our 
English  trochees.  But,  saving  in  this  instance,  I 
have  confined  myself  throughout  to  the  example 
of  William  Shakespeare,  surely  the  best  master 
for  those  who,  as  I  fondly  hope,  will  follow  me  in 
the  regeneration  of  the  British  Stage. 


A  Plea  for  the  Simpler  Drama 
THE  CRISIS 

PLACE  :   The  Study  at  the  Vicarage.     TIME  9.15  p.m. 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

THE  REV.  ARCHIBALD  HAVERTON  :   The  Vicar. 

MRS.  HAVERTON  :  His  Wife. 

Miss  GROSVENOR  :  A  Governess. 

MATILDA  :  A  Maid. 

FIDO  :  A  Dog. 

HEH.MIONE  COBLEY  :  Daughter  of  a  cottager  who 
takes  in  washing. 

Miss  HARVEY  :  A  guest,  cousin  to  Mrs.  Haverton^ 
a  Unitarian. 

(The  REV.  ARCHIBALD  HAVERTON  is  reading  the 
"Standard"  by  a  lamp  with  a  green  shade. 
MRS.  HAVERTON  is  hemming  a  towel.  FIDO 
is  asleep  on  the  rug.  On  the  walls  are  three 
engravings  from  Landseer,  a  portrait  of  Her 
late  Majesty  Queen  Victoria,  a  bookcase  with 
books  in  it,  and  a  looking-glass.} 
MRS.  HAVERTON  :  My  dear — I  hope  I  do  not 

interrupt  you — 
Helen  has  given  notice. 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON  (looking  up  suddenly)  : 

Given  notice  ? 

Who  ?    Helen  ?    Given  notice  ?     Bless  my  soul ! 
(A  pause.) 

5 


On   Something 

I  never  thought  that  she  would  give  us  notice. 

(Ponders  and  frowns.) 

MRS.  HAVERTON  :  Well,  but  she  has,  and  now 

the  question  is, 

What  shall  we  do  to  find  another  cook? 
Servants  are  very  difficult  to  get.    (Sighs.) 
Especially  to  come  into  the  country 
To  such  a  place  as  this.  (Sighs.)  No  wonder,  either ! 
Oh!  Mercy!     When  one  comes  to  think  of  it, 
One  cannot  blame  them.     (Sighs.)     Heaven  only 

knows 
I  try  to  do  my  duty  !     (Sighs  profoundly.) 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON  (uneasily) :  Well,  my  dear, 
I  cannot  make  preferment. 
(Front  door-bell  rings.) 

FIDO  :  Bow  !  wow  !  wow  ! 

REV.  A.  HATHERTON  (patting  kirn  to  soothe  him): 
There,  Fido,  there ! 

FIDO  :  Wow  !  wow  ! 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON  :  Good  do<r,  there  ! 

O' 

FIDO  :  Wow, 

Wow,  wow ! 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON  (eery  nervous) :  There  ! 
FIDO:  Wow!  wow! 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON  (in  an  agony) :  Good  dog! 
FIDO  :  Bow  !  wow  !  wow  ! 

Wow, wow!  Wow!!  WOW!!! 
MRS.  HAVERTON  (very  excited) :    Oh,  Lord,  he'll 

wake  the  children ! 
6 


A   Plea  for  the  Simpler  Drama 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON  (exploding)  :   How  often  have 

I  told  you,  Dorothy, 
Not  to  exclaim  "  Good  Lord !"   .  .  .     Apart  from 

manners — 

Which  have  their  own  importance — blasphemy 
(And  I  regard  the  phrase  as  blasphemous) 

Cannot 

MRS.  HAVERTON  (uneasily)  :  Oh,  very  well !  .  .  . 
Oh,  very  well ! 

(Exploding  in  her  turn.) 
Upon  my  soul,  you  are  intolerable  ! 

(She jumps  up  ami  makes  for  the  door.     Before 
she  gets  to  it  there  is  a  knock  and  MATILDA 
enters.) 
MATILDA  :   Please,  m'm,  it's  only  Mrs.  Cobley's 

daughter 

To  say  the  washing  shall  be  sent  to-morrow, 
And  would  you  check  the  list  again  and  see, 
Because  she  thinks  she  never  had  two  collars 
Of  what  you  sent,  but  only  five,  because 
You  marked  it  seven  ;  and  Mrs.  Cobley  says 
There  must  be  some  mistake. 

REV.  A.   HAVERTOX  (pompously) :  I  will  attend 

to  it. 
MRS.  HAVERTON  (whispering  angrily):  How  can 

you,  Archibald  !    You  haven't  got 
The  ghost  of  an  idea  about  the  washing  ! 
Sit  down.     (He  does  so.)    (To  Matilda)  Send  the 
Girl  in  here. 


On  Something 

MRS.  HAVERTON  sils  down  in  a  fume. 
REV.  A.  HAVERTON  :  I  think  .   .  . 
MRS.  HAVERTON  (snapping)  :  I  don't  care  what 
you  think ! 

(Groans.)      Oh,  dear  ! 
I'm  nearly  off  my  head  ! 

Enter  Miss  COBLEV.    (She  bobs.) 

Good  evening,  m'm. 
MRS.  HAVERTON  (by  way  of  reply] : 
Now,  then !  What's  all  this  fuss  about  the  washing  ? 
Miss  COBLEY  :   Please,  m'm,  the  seven  collars, 

what  you  sent — 

I  mean  the  seven  what  was  marked — was  wrong, 
And  mother  says  as  you'd  have  had  the  washing 
Only   there   weren't   but    five,    and   would    you 

mind  .   .  . 
MRS.  HAVERTON  (sharply)  :  I  cannot  understand 

a  word  you  say. 

Go  back  and  tell  your  mother  there  were  seven. 
And  if  she  sends  home  Jive  she  pays  for  two. 
So  there  !     (Snorts.) 

Miss  COBLEY  (sobbing) :  I'm  sure  I  ... 

MRS.  HAVERTON  (savagely) :  Don't  stand  snuffling 

there ! 

Go  back  and  tell  your  mother  what  I  say  .  .  . 
Impudent  hussy !  .   .  . 

(Exit  Miss  COBLEY  sobbing.    A  pause.) 
REV.  A.  HAVERTON  (with  assumed  authority) :  To 
return  to  Helen. 


A  Plea  for  the  Simpler  Drama 

Tell  me  concisely  and  without  complaints, 
Why  did  she  give  you  notice  ? 

(A  hand-bell  rings  in  the  passage.) 

FIDO  :  Bow-wow-wow ! 

REV.   A.    HAVERTON   (giving  him  a  smart  kick)  : 

Shurrup  ! 
FIDO  (howling).   Pen-an'-ink  !  Pen-an'-ink 

Pen-an'-ink  !     Pen-an'-ink  ! 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON    (controlling  himself  as   well 

as  he  can,  goes  to  the  door  and  calls  into  the 

passage) :  Miss  Grosvenor  ! 

(Louder)   .   .  .    Miss   Grosvenor !  .  .   .    Was  that 

the  bell  for  prayers  ? 
Was  that  the  bell  for  prayers?  .  .  .  (Louder)    Miss 

Grosvenor. 
(Louder)  Miss  Gros-ve-nor !  (Tapping  with  his  foot.) 

Oh ! ... 
Miss  GROSVENOR  (sweetly  and  far  off)  :    Is  that 

Mr.  Haverton? 

REV.  A.  HAVERTON  :  Yes  !  yes  !  yes  !  yes  !.".-. 
Was  that  the  bell  for  prayers  ? 

Miss    GROSVENOR   (again) :    Yes  ?     Is  that    Mr. 

Haverton  ?     Oh  !     Yes  ! 
I  think  it  is.  ...   I'll  see — I'll  ask  Matilda. 

(A  pause,  during  which  the  REV.  A.  HAVERTON 
is  in  a  qualm.) 

Miss  GROSVENOR  (rustling  back)  :  Matilda  says  it 
is  the  bell  for  prayers. 


On  Something 

(Thai/    all   come  filing    into    the   study  and 

arranging  the  chairs.      As  they  enter  Miss 

HARVEY,    the    guest,    treads    heavily    on 

MATILDA'S  foot.} 

Miss  HARVEY  :  Matilda  ?     Was  that  you  ?      I 

beg  your  pardon. 

MATILDA  (limping)  :  Granted,  I'm  sure,  miss ! 
MRS.    HAVERTON    (whispering    to    the    REV.     A. 

HAVERTON)  :  Do  not  read  the  Creed  ! 
Miss  Harvey  is  a  Unitarian. 
I  should  suggest  some  simple  form  of  prayer, 
Some  heartfelt  word  of  charity  and  peace 
Common  to  every  Christian. 

REV.  A.   HAVERTON   (in   a  deep  voice) :  Let  us 
pray. 

Curtain. 


On  a  Notebook 

A  DEAR  friend  of  mine  (John  Abdullah 
Capricorn,  to  give  him  his  full  name)  was 
commandeered  by  a  publisher  last  year  to  write 
a  book  for  £10.  The  work  was  far  advanced 
when  an  editor  offered  him  £\ 5  and  his  expenses 
to  visit  the  more  desperate  parts  of  the  Sahara 
Desert,  to  which  spots  he  at  once  proceeded  upon 
a  roving  commission.  Whether  he  will  return  or 
no  is  now  doubtful,  though  in  March  we  had  the 
best  hopes.  With  the  month  of  May  life 
becomes  hard  for  Europeans  south  of  the  Atlas, 
and  when  my  poor  dear  friend  was  last  heard  of 
he  was  chancing  his  popularity  with  a  tribe  of 
Touaregs  about  two  hundred  miles  south  of 
Touggourt. 

Under  these  circumstances  I  was  asked  to  look 
through  his  notebook  and  see  what  could  be 
done;  and  I  confess  to  a  pleased  surprise.  ...  It 
would  have  been  a  very  entertaining  book  had  it 
been  published.  It  will  be  a  very  entertaining 
book  if  it  is  published. 

Capricorn  seems  to  have  prepared  a  hotch- 
potch of  information  of  human  follies,  of  con- 


On  Something 

trasts,  and  of  blunt  stupidities  of  which  he 
intended  to  make  a  very  entertaining  series  of 
pages.  I  have  not  his  talent  for  bringing  such 
things  together,  but  it  may  amuse  the  reader  if  I 
merely  put  in  their  order  one  or  two  of  the  notes 
which  most  struck  me. 

I  find  first,  cut  out  of  a  newspaper  and  pasted 
into  the  book  (many  of  his  notes  are  in  this  form), 
the  following  really  jovial  paragraph  : 

"  Archdeacon  Blunderbuss  (Blunderbuss  is  not 
the  real  name ;  I  suppress  that  lest  Capricorn's 
widow  should  lose  her  two  or  three  pounds,  in  case 
the  poor  fellow  has  really  been  eaten).  Arch- 
deacon Blunderbuss  was  more  distinguished  as  a 
scholar  than  as  a  Divine.  He  was  a  very  poor 
preacher  and  never  managed  to  identify  himself 
with  any  party.  Nevertheless,  in  1895  the  Prime 
Minister  appointed  him  to  a  stall  in  Shoreham 
Cathedral  as  a  recognition  of  his  great  learning 
and  good  work  at  Durham.  Two  years  later  the 
rectory  of  St.  Vacuums  becoming  vacant  and  it 
being  within  the  gift  of  Archdeacon  Blunderbuss, 
he  excited  general  amazement  and  much  scandal 
by  presenting  himself  to  the  living." 

There   the  paragraph  ends.      It  came  in   an 
ordinary  society  paper.     It  bore  no  marks  of  ill- 
will.     It  came  in  the  midst  of  a  column  of  the 
usual   silly  adulation   of  everybody    and  every- 
12 


On  a  Notebook 

thing ;  how  it  got  there  is  of  no  importance. 
There  it  stood  and  the  keen  eye  of  Capricorn 
noted  it  and  treasured  it  for  years. 

I  will  make  no  comment  upon  this  paragraph. 
It  may  be  read  slowly  or  quickly,  according  to 
the  taste  of  the  reader ;  it  is  equally  delicious 
either  way. 

The  next  excerpt  I  find  in  the  notebook  is  as 
follows : 

"  More  than  1 5,000,000  visits  are  paid  annually 
to  London  pawnbrokers. 

"Jupiter  is  1387  times  as  big  as  the  earth,  but 
only  300  times  as  heavy. 

"  The  world's  coal  mines  yield  400,000,000  tons 
of  coal  a  year. 

"  The  value  of  the  pictures  in  the  National 
Gallery  is  about  £1,250,000." 

This  tickled  Capricorn — I  don't  know  why. 
Perhaps  he  thought  the  style  disjointed  or  per- 
haps he  had  got  it  into  his  head  that  when  this 
information  had  been  absorbed  by  the  vulgar  they 
would  stand  much  where  they  stood  before,  and 
be  no  nearer  the  end  of  man  nor  the  accomplish- 
ment of  any  Divine  purpose  in  their  creation. 
Anyhow  he  kept  it,  and  I  think  he  was  wise  to 
keep  it.  One  cannot  keep  everything  of  that 
kind  that  is  printed,  so  it  is  well  to  keep  a 
specimen.  Capricorn  had,  moreover,  intended  to 
13 


On  Something 

perpetu«ite  that  specimen  for  ever  in  his  immortal 
prose — pray  Heaven  he  may  return  to  do  so  ! 

I  next  find  the  following  excerpt  from  an 
evening  paper : 

"  No  more  gallant  gentleman  lives  on  the  broad 
acres  of  his  native  England  than  Brigadier- 
General  Sir  Hammerthrust  Honeybubble,  who  is 
one  of  the  few  survivors  of  the  great  charge  at 
Tamulpuco,  a  feat  of  arms  now  half  forgotten, 
but  with  which  England  rang  during  the  Brazilian 
War.  Brigadier-General,  or,  as  he  then  was,  plain 
Captain  Hammerthrust  Honeybubble,  passed 
through  five  Brazilian  batteries  unharmed,  and 
came  back  so  terribly  hacked  that  his  head  was 
almost  severed  from  his  body.  Hardly  able  to 
keep  his  seat  and  continually  wiping  the  blood 
from  his  left  eye,  he  rode  back  to  his  troop  at  a 
walk,  and,  in  spite  of  pursuit,  finally  completed 
his  escape.  Sir  Hammerthrust,  we  are  glad  to 
learn,  is  still  hale  and  hearty  in  his  ninety-third 
year,  and  we  hope  he  may  see  many  more  returns 
of  the  day  upon  his  patrimonial  estate  in  the 
Orkneys." 

To  this  excerpt  I  find  only  one  marginal  note 
in  Capricorn's  delicate  and  beautiful  handwriting  : 
"  What  day  ? "  But  whether  this  referred  to 
some  appointment  of  his  own  I  was  unable  to 
discover. 

14 


On  a  Notebook 

I  next  find  a  certain  number  of  cuttings  which 
I  think  cannot  have  been  intended  for  the  book 
at  all,  but  must  have  been  designed  for  poor 
Capricorn's  "  Oxford  Anthology  of  Bad  Verse," 
which,  just  before  he  left  England,  he  was  in 
process  of  preparing  for  the  University  Press. 
Capricorn  had  a  very  fine  sense  of  bad  taste  in 
verse,  and  the  authorities  could  have  chosen  no 
one  better  suited  for  the  duty  of  editing  such 
a  volume.  I  must  not  give  the  reader  too  much 
of  these  lines,  but  the  following  quatrain  deserves 
recognition  and  a  permanent  memory  : 

Napoleon  hoped  that  all  the  world  would  fall  beneath 

his  sway. 

He  failed  in  this  ambition  ;  and  where  is  he  to-day  ? 
Neither  the  nations  of  the  East  nor  the  nations  of  the 

West 
Have  thought  the  thing  Napoleon  thought  was  to  their 

interest. 

This  is  enormous.  As  philosophy,  as  history, 
as  rhetoric,  as  metre,  as  rhythm,  as  politics,  it  is 
positively  enormous.  The  whole  poem  is  a  won- 
derful poem,  and  I  wish  I  had  space  for  it  here. 
It  is  patriotic  and  it  is  written  about  as  badly  as 
a  poem  could  conceivably  be  written.  It  is  a 
mournful  pleasure  to  think  that  my  dear  friend 
had  his  last  days  in  the  Old  Country  illuminated 
by  such  a  treasure.  It  is  but  one  of  many,  but  I 
think  it  is  the  best. 

Another  extract  which  catches  my  eye  is  drawn 


On  Something 

from  the  works  of  one  in  a  distant  and  foreign 
land.  Yet  it  was  worth  preserving.  This  per- 
sonage, Tindersturm  by  name,  issued  a  pamphlet 
which  fell  under  the  regulations,  the  very  strict 
regulations,  of  the  Prussian  Government,  by 
which  any  one  of  its  subjects  who  says  or  prints 
anything  calculated  to  stir  up  religious  or  racial 
strife  within  the  State  is  subject  to  severe  pen- 
alties. Now  those  severe  penalties  had  fallen 
upon  Tindersturm  and  he  had  been  imprisoned 
for  some  years  according  to  the  paragraph  that 
followed  the  extract  I  am  about  to  give.  That 
the  aforesaid  Tindersturm  did  indeed  tend  to 
"stir  up  religious  and  racial  strife,"  nay,  went 
somewhat  out  of  his  way  to  do  it,  will  be  clear 
enough  when  you  read  the  following  lines  from 
his  little  broadsheet  : 

"  It  is  time  for  us  to  go  for  this  caddish  alien 
sect.  If  on  your  way  home  from  the  theatre  you 
meet  the  blue-eyed,  tow-haired,  lolloping  gang, 
whether  they  be  youths  or  ladies,  go  right  up  to 
them  and  give  them  a  smart  smack,  left  and 
right,  a  blow  in  the  eye ;  and  lift  your  foot  and 
give  the  tow-headed  ones  a  kick.  In  this  way 
must  we  begin  the  business.  My  Fatherland, 
wake  up  !  " 

To  this   extract  poor  Capricorn   has  added  the 

word  "Excellent,"  and  the   same  comment  he 

16 


On  a  Notebook 

makes  upon  the  following  conclusion  to  a  letter 
written  to  a  religious  paper  and  dealing  with 
some  politician  or  other  who  had  done  something 
which  the  correspondent  did  not  like  : 

"  That  his  eyes  may  be  opened  while  he  lives  is 
the  prayer  of 

"  Yours  truly, 

"AN  EARNEST  MEMBER  OF  THE  FOLD" 

From  such  a  series  it  is  a  recreation  to  turn  to 
the  little  social  paragraphs  which  gave  Capricorn 
such  acute  and  such  continual  joy  ;  as,  for  instance, 
this  : 

"  Mrs.  Harry  Bacon  wishes  it  to  be  known  that 
she  has  ceased  to  have  any  connection  whatsoever 
with  the  Boudoir  for  Lost  Dogs.  Her  address 
is  still  Hermione  House,  Bourton-on-the-Water, 
Fenton  Marsh,  Worcester." 

There  is  much  more  in  the  notebook  with 
which  I  could  while  away  the  reader's  time  did 
space  permit  of  it.  I  find  among  the  very  last 
entries,  for  instance,  this  : 

"  It  was  a  strenuous  and  thrilling  contest.  Some 
terrible  blows  were  exchanged.  In  the  last 
round,  however,  Schmidt  landed  his  opponent  a 
very  nasty  one  under  the  chin,  stretching  him 
out  lifeless  and  breaking  his  elbow  ;  whereupon 
the  prize  was  awarded  him." 

2  17 


On  Something 

To  this  joyous  gem  Capricorn  has  added  a  whole 
foison  of  annotations.  He  asks  at  the  end  : 
"Which  was  '  him  '  ?  Important."  And  he 
underlines  in  red  ink  the  word  "  however/'  per- 
haps as  mysterious  a  copulative  as  has  ever 
appeared  in  British  prose.  I  should  add  that 
Capricorn  himself  was  an  ardent  sportsman  and 
very  rarely  missed  any  of  the  first-class  events  of 
the  ring,  though  personally  he  did  not  box,  and 
on  the  few  occasions  when  I  have  seen  the  exer- 
cise forced  upon  him  in  the  public  streets  he 
showed  the  greatest  distaste  to  this  form  of 
athletics. 

Lastly,  1  find  this  note  with  which  I  must  close  : 
it  is  taken  from  the  verbatim  report  of  a  great 
case  in  the  courts,  now  half  forgotten,  but  ten 
years  ago  the  talk  of  London  : 

"  The  witness  then  said  that  he  had  been  pro- 
mised an  independence  for  life  if  he  could  dis- 
cover the  defendant  in  the  act  of  enclosing  any 
part  of  the  land,  or  any  document  or  order  of 
his  involving  such  an  enclosure.  He  therefore 
watched  the  defendant  regularly  from  June,  1896, 
to  the  middle  of  July,  1900.  He  also  watched 
the  defendant's  father  and  mother,  three  boys, 
married  daughter,  grandmother  and  grandfather, 
his  two  married  sisters,  his  brother,  his  agent,  and 
his  agent's  wife — but  he  had  discovered  nothing." 
18 


On  a  Notebook 

That  such  a  sentence  should  have  been  printed 
in  the  pjiglish  language  and  delivered  by  an 
English  mouth  in  an  English  witness-box  was 
enough  for  Capricorn.  Give  him  that  alone  for 
intellectual  food  in  his  desert  lodge  and  he  was 
happy. 

Shall  I  tempt  Providence  by  any  further  ex- 
tracts ?  ...  It  is  difficult  to  tear  oneself  away 
from  such  a  feast.  So  let  me  put  in  this  very 
last,  really  the  last,  by  way  of  savoury.  There  it 
is  in  black  and  white  and  no  one  can  undo  it : 
not  all  her  piety,  nor  all  her  wit.  It  dates  from 
the  year  IQOt,  when,  Heaven  knows,  the  internal 
combustion  engine  and  its  possibilities  were  not 
exactly  new,  and  I  give  it  word  for  word  : 

"  The  Duchess  is,  moreover,  a  pioneer  in  the  use 
of  the  motor-car.  She  finds  it  an  agreeable  and 
speedy  means  of  conveyance  from  her  country 
seat  to  her  town  house,  and  also  a  very  practical 
way  of  getting  to  see  her  friends  at  week-ends. 
She  has  been  heard  to  complain,  however,  that  a 
substitute  for  the  pneumatic  tyre  less  liable  to 
puncture  than  it  is  would  be  a  priceless  boon." 

There  !  There  !  May  they  all  rest  in  peace  ! 
They  have  added  to  the  gaiety  of  mankind. 


On  Unknown  People          ^> 

\7OU  will  often  hear  it  said  that  it  is  astonish- 
ing such  and  such  work  should  be  present 
and  enduring  in  the  world,,  and  yet  the  name  of 
its  author  not  known  ;  but  when  one  considers  the 
variety  of  good  work  and  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  is  achieved,  and  the  variety  of  taste  also 
between  different  times  and  places,  one  begins  to 
understand  what  is  at  first  so  astonishing. 

There  are  writers  who  have  ascribed  this 
frequent  ignorance  of  ours  to  all  sorts  of  heroic 
moods,  to  the  self-sacrifice  or  the  humility  of  a 
whole  epoch  or  of  particular  artists  :  that  is  the 
least  satisfactory  of  the  reasons  one  could  find. 
All  men  desire,  if  not  fame,  at  least  the  one  poor 
inalienable  right  of  authorship,  and  unless  one 
can  find  very  good  reasons  indeed  why  a  painter 
or  a  writer  or  a  sculptor  should  deliberately  have 
hidden  himself  one  must  look  for  some  other 
cause. 

Among  such  causes  the  first  two,  I  think,  are 
the  multiplicity  of  good  work,  and  its  chance 
character.  Not  that  any  one  ever  does  very  good 
work  for  once  and  then  never  again  — at  least,  such 

20 


On  Unknown  People 

an  accident  is  extremely  rare  — but  that  many  a 
man  who  has  achieved  some  skill  by  long  labour 
does  now  and  then  strike  out  a  sort  of  spark  quite 
individual  and  separate  from  the  rest.  Often  you 
will  find  that  a  man  who  is  remembered  for  but 
one  picture  or  one  poem  is  worth  research.  You 
will  find  that  he  did  much  more.  It  is  to  be 
remembered  that  for  a  long  time  Ronsard  himself 
was  thought  to  be  a  man  of  one  poem. 

The  multiplicity  of  good  work  also  and  the 
way  in  which  accident  helps  it  is  a  cause.  There 
are  bits  of  architecture  (and  architecture  is  the 
most  anonymous  of  all  the  arts)  which  depend  for 
their  effect  to-day  very  largely  upon  situation  and 
the  process  of  time,  and  there  are  a  thousand 
corners  in  Europe  intended  merely  for  some 
utility  which  happen  almost  without  deliberate 
design  to  have  proved  perfect :  this  is  especially 
true  of  bridges. 

Then  there  is  this  element  in  the  anonymity  of 
good  work,  that  a  man  very  often  has  no  idea  how 
good  the  work  is  which  he  has  done.  The  anec- 
dotes (such  as  that  famous  one  of  Keats)  which 
tell  us  of  poets  desiring  to  destroy  their  work, 
or,  at  any  rate,  casting  it  aside  as  of  little  value, 
are  not  all  false.  We  still  have  the  letter  in 
which  Burns  enclosed  "Scots  wha'  hae,"  and  it 
is  curious  to  note  his  misjudgment  of  the  verse; 
and  side  by  side  with  that  kind  of  misjudgment 
21 


On  Something 

we  have  men  picking  out  for  singular  affection 
and  with  a  full  expectation  of  glory  some  piece  of 
work  of  theirs  to  which  posterity  will  have  nothing 
to  say.  This  is  especially  true  of  work  recast 
by  men  in  mature  age.  Writers  and  painters 
(sculptors  luckily  are  restrained  by  the  nature 
of  their  art — unless  they  deliberately  go  and 
break  up  their  work  with  a  hammer)  retouch  and 
change,  in  the  years  when  they  have  become  more 
critical  and  less  creative,  what  they  think  to  be 
the  insufficient  achievements  of  their  youth  :  yet 
it  is  the  vigour  and  the  simplicity  of  their  youthful 
work  which  other  men  often  prefer  to  remember. 
On  this  account  any  number  of  good  things  remain 
anonymous,  because  the  good  writer  or  the  good 
painter  or  the  good  sculptor  was  ashamed  of 
them. 

Then  there  is  this  reason  for  anonymity,  that  at 
times — for  quite  a  short  few  years — a  sort  of 
universality  of  good  work  in  one  or  more  depart- 
ments of  art  seems  to  fall  upon  the  world  or  upon 
some  district.  Nowhere  do  you  see  this  more 
strikingly  than  in  the  carvings  of  the  first  third 
of  the  sixteenth  century  in  Northern  and  Central 
France  and  on  the  Flemish  border. 

Men  seemed  at  that  moment  incapable  of  doing 
work  that  was  not  marvellous  when  they  once 
began  to  express  the  human  figure.  Sometimes 
their  mere  name  remains,  more  often  it  is  doubt- 


On  Unknown  People 

fill,  sometimes  it  is  entirely  lost.  More  curious 
still,  you  often  have  for  this  period  a  mixture  of 
names.  You  come  across  some  astonishing  series 
of  reliefs  in  a  forgotten  church  of  a  small  pro- 
vincial town.  You  know  at  once  that  it  is  work  of 
the  moment  when  the  flood  of  the  Renaissance 
had  at  last  reached  the  old  country  of  the  Gothic. 
You  can  swear  that  if  it  were  not  made  in  the 
time  of  Francis  I  or  Henry  II  it  was  at  least 
made  by  men  who  could  remember  or  had  seen 
those  times.  But  when  you  turn  to  the  names  the 
names  are  nobodies. 

By  far  the  most  famous  of  these  famous  things, 
or  at  any  rate  the  most  deserving  of  fame,  is  the 
miracle  of  Brou.  It  is  a  whole  world.  You  would 
say  that  either  one  transcendent  genius  had 
modelled  every  face  and  figure  of  those  thousands 
(so  individual  are  they),  or  that  a  company  of 
inspired  men  differing  in  their  traditions  and 
upbringing  from  all  the  commonalty  of  mankind 
had  done  such  things.  When  you  go  to  the  names 
all  you  find  is  that  Coulombe  out  of  Touraine 
began  the  job,  that  there  was  some  sort  of  quarrel 
between  his  head-man  and  the  paymasters,  that 
he  was  replaced  in  the  most  everyday  manner 
conceivable  by  a  Fleming,  Van  Boghem,  and  that 
this  Fleming  had  to  help  him  a  better-known 
Swiss,  one  Meyt.  It  is  the  same  story  with  nearly 
all  this  kind  of  work  and  its  wonderful  period. 
23 


On  Something 

The  wealth  of  detail  at  Louviers  or  Gisors  is  almost 
anonymous;  that  of  the  first  named  perhaps  quite 
anonymous. 

Who  carved  the  wood  in  St.  James's  Church  at 
Antwerp  ?  I  think  the  name  is  known  for  part  of 
it,  but  no  one  did  the  whole  or  anything  like  the 
whole,  and  yet  it  is  all  one  thing.  Who  carved 
the  wood  in  St.  Bertrand  de  Comminges  ?  We 
know  who  paid  for  it,  and  that  is  all  we  know. 
And  as  for  the  wood  of  Rouen,  we  must  content 
ourselves  with  the  vague  phrase,  "  Probably 
Flemish  artists." 

Of  the  Gothic  statues  where  they  were  con- 
ventional, however  grand  the  work,  one  can 
understand  that  they  should  be  anonymous,  but  it 
is  curious  to  note  the  same  silence  where  the 
work  is  strikingly  and  particularly  individual. 
Among  the  kings  at  Rheims  are  two  heads,  one 
of  St.  Louis,  one  of  his  grandson.  Had  some  one 
famous  sculptor  done  these  things  and  others, 
were  his  work  known  and  sought  after,  these  two 
heads  would  be  as  renowned  as  anything  in 
Europe.  As  it  is  they  are  two  among  hundreds 
that  the  latter  thirteenth  and  early  fourteenth 
centuries  scattered  broadcast;  each  probably 
was  the  work  of  a  different  workman,  and  the 
author  or  authors  of  each  remain  equally  un- 
known. 

I  know  not  whether  there  is  more  pathos  or 
24 


On  Unknown  People 

more  humour  or  more  consolation  in  considering 
this  ignorance  of  ours  with  regard  to  the  makers 
of  good  things. 

It  is  full  of  parable.  There  is  something  of  it 
in  Nature.  There  are  men  who  will  walk  all  day 
through  a  June  wood  and  come  out  atheists  at  the 
end  of  it,  finding  no  signature  thereupon ;  and 
there  are  others  who,  sailing  over  the  sea,  come 
back  home  after  seeing  so  many  things  still 
puzzled  as  to  their  authorship.  That  is  one 
parable. 

Then  there  is  this  :  the  corrective  of  ambition. 
Since  so  much  remains,  the  very  names  of  whose 
authors  have  perished,  what  does  it  matter  to  you 
or  to  the  world  whether  your  name,  so  long  as 
your  work,  survives  ?  Who  was  it  that  carefully 
and  cunningly  fixed  the  sights  on  Cumber  Corner 
so  as  to  get  upon  a  clear  day  his  exact  alignment 
with  Pulborough  and  then  the  shoulder  of  Leith 
Hill,  just  to  miss  the  two  rivers  and  just  to 
obtain  the  best  going  for  a  military  road  ?  He 
was  some  engineer  or  other  among  the  thousands 
in  the  Imperial  Service.  He  was  at  Chichester 
for  some  weeks  and  drew  his  pay,  and  then  per- 
haps went  on  to  London,  and  he  was  born  in 
Africa  or  in  Lombardy,  or  he  was  a  Breton,  or  he 
was  from  Lusitania  or  from  the  Euphrates.  He 
did  that  bit  of  work  most  certainly  without  any 
consideration  of  fame,  for  engineers  (especially 
25 


On  Something 

when  they  are  soldiers)  are  singular  among  artists 
in  this  matter.  But  he  did  a  very  wonderful 
thing,  and  the  Roman  Road  has  run  there  for 
fifteen  hundred  years — his  creation.  Some  one 
must  have  hit  upon  that  precise  line  and  the 
reason  for  it.  It  is  exactly  right,  and  the  thing 
done  was  as  great  and  is  to-day  as  satisfying  as 
that  sculpture  of  Brou  or  the  two  boys  Murillo 
painted,  whom  you  may  see  in  the  Gallery  at 
Dulwich.  But  he  never  thought  of  any  one  know- 
ing his  name,  and  no  one  knows  it. 

Then  there  is  this  last  thing  about  anonymous 
work,  which  is  also  a  parable  and  a  sad  one.  It 
shows  how  there  is  no  bridge  between  two  human 
minds. 

How  often  have  I  not  come  upon  a  corbel  of 
stone  carved  into  the  shape  of  a  face,  and  that 
face  had  upon  it  either  horror  or  laughter  or 
great  sweetness  or  vision,  and  I  have  looked  at  it 
as  I  might  have  looked  upon  a  living  face,  save 
that  it  was  more  wonderful  than  most  living  faces. 
It  carried  in  it  the  soul  and  the  mind  of  the  man 
who  made  it.  But  he  has  been  dead  these 
hundreds  of  years.  That  corbel  cannot  be  in 
communion  with  me,  for  it  is  of  stone  ;  it  is  dumb 
and  will  not  speak  to  me,  though  it  compels  me 
continually  to  ask  it  questions.  Its  author  also 
is  dumb,  for  he  has  been  dead  so  long,  and  I  can 
know  nothing  about  him  whatsoever. 
26 


On  Unknown  People 

Now  so  it  is  with  any  two  human  minds,  not 
only  when  they  are  separated  by  centuries  and 
by  silence,  but  when  they  have  their  being  side 
by  side  under  one  roof  and  are  companions  all 
their  years. 


27 


On  a  Van  Tromp 


/  ^iXCE  there  was  a  man  who,  having  nothing 
else  to  do  and  being  fond  of  that  kind  of 
thing,  copied  with  a  good  deal  of  care  on  to  a  bit 
of  wood  the  corner  of  a  Dutch  picture  in  one  of 
the  public  galleries. 

This  man  was  not  a  good  artist  ;  indeed,  he 
was  nothing  but  a  humpbacked  and  very  sensitive 
little  squire  with  about  £3000  a  year  of  his  own 
and  a  great  liking  for  intricate  amusements.  He 
was  a  pretty  good  mathematician  and  a  tolerable 
fisherman.  He  knew  an  enormous  amount  about 
the  Mohammedan  conquest  of  Spain,  and  he  is, 
I  believe,  writing  a  book  upon  that  subject.  I 
hope  he  will,  for  nearly  all  history  wants  to  be  re- 
written. Anyhow,  he,  as  I  have  just  said,  did 
copy  a  corner  of  one  of  the  Dutch  pictures  in 
one  of  the  galleries.  It  was  a  Dutch  picture  of 
the  seventeenth  century  ;  and  since  the  laws  of 
this  country  are  very  complicated  and  the  sanc- 
tions attached  to  them  very  terrible,  I  will  not 
give  the  name  of  the  original  artist,  but  I  will 
call  him  Van  Tromp. 

Van  Tromps  have  always  been  recognized,  and 
28 


On  a  Van  Tromp 

there  was  a  moment  about  fifty  years  after  the 
artist's  death  when  they  had  a  considerable  vogue 
in  the  French  Court.  Monsieur,  who  was  quite 
ignorant  of  such  things,  bought  a  couple,  and 
there  is  a  whole  row  of  them  in  the  little  pavilion 
at  Louveciennes.  Van  Tromp  has  something  about 
him  at  once  positive  and  elusive ;  he  is  full  of 
planes  and  values,  and  he  interprets  and  renders, 
and  the  rest  of  it.  Nay,  he  transfers ! 

About  thirty  years  ago  Mr.  Mayor  (of  Hildes- 
heim  and  London)  thought  it  his  duty  to  impress 
upon  the  public  how  great  Van  Tromp  was.  This 
he  did  after  taking  thirteen  Van  T romps  in  pay- 
ment of  a  bad  debt,  and  he  succeeded.  But  the 
man  I  am  writing  about  cared  nothing  for  all 
this  :  he  simply  wanted  to  see  how  well  he  could 
imitate  this  corner  of  the  picture,  and  he  did  it 
pretty  well.  He  begrimed  it  and  he  rubbed  at 
it,  and  then  he  tickled  it  up  again  with  a  knife, 
and  then  he  smoked  it,  and  then  he  put  in  some 
dirty  whites  which  were  vivid,  and  he  played  the 
fool  with  white  of  egg,  and  so  forth,  until  he  had 
the  very  tone  and  manner  of  the  original ;  and  as 
he  had  done  it  on  an  old  bit  of  wood  it  was 
exactly  right,  and  he  was  very  proud  of  the 
result.  He  got  an  old  frame  from  near  Long 
Acre  and  stuck  it  in,  and  then  he  took  the  thing 
home.  He  had  done  several  things  of  this  kind, 
imitating  miniatures,  and  even  enamels.  It 
29 


On   Something 

amused  him.  When  he  got  home  he  sat  looking 
at  it  with  great  pleasure  for  an  hour  or  two ;  he 
left  the  little  thing  on  the  table  of  his  study  and 
went  to  bed. 

Here  begins  the  story,  and  here,  therefore,  I 
must  tell  you  what  the  subject  of  this  corner  of 
the  picture  was. 

The  subject  of  this  corner  of  the  picture  which 
he  had  copied  was  a  woman  in  a  brown  jacket 
and  a  red  petticoat  with  big  feet  showing  under- 
neath, sitting  on  a  tub  and  cutting  up  some  vege- 
tables. She  had  her  hair  bunched  up  like  an  onion, 
a  fashion  which,  as  we  all  know,  appealed  to  the 
Dutch  in  the  seventeenth  century,  or  at  any  rate 
to  the  plebeian  Dutch.  I  must  also  tell  you  the 
name  of  this  squire  before  I  go  any  further :  his 
name  was  Hammer — Paul  Hammer.  He  was 
unmarried. 

He  went  to  bed  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  when 
he  came  down  at  eight  o'clock  he  had  his  break- 
fast. He  went  into  his  study  at  nine  o'clock, 
and  was  very  much  annoyed  to  find  that  some 
burglars  had  come  in  during  the  night  and  had 
taken  away  a  number  of  small  objects  which 
were  not  without  value ;  and  among  them,  what 
he  most  regretted,  his  little  pastiche  of  the  corner 
of  the  Van  Tromp. 

For  some  moments  he  stood  filled  with  an  acute 
anger  and  wishing  that  he  knew  who  the  burglars 
30 


On  a  Van  Tromp 

were  and  how  to  get  at  them  ;  but  the  days  passed, 
and  though  he  asked  everybody,  and  even  gave 
some  money  to  the  police,  he  could  not  discover 
this.  He  put  an  advertisement  into  several  news- 
papers, both  London  newspapers  and  local  ones, 
saying  that  money  would  be  given  if  the  thing 
were  restored,  and  pretty  well  hinting  that  no 
questions  would  be  asked,  but  nothing  came. 

Meanwhile  the  burglars,  whose  names  were 
Charles  and  Lothair  Femeral,  foreigners  but 
English-speaking,  had  found  some  of  their  ill- 
acquired  goods  saleable,  others  unsaleable.  They 
wanted  a  pound  for  the  little  picture  in  the 
frame,  and  this  they  could  not  get,  and  it  was 
a  bother  haggling  it  about.  Lothair  Femeral 
thought  of  a  good  plan :  he  stopped  at  an  inn  on 
the  third  day  of  their  peregrinations,  had  a  good 
dinner  with  his  brother,  told  the  innkeeper  that 
he  could  not  pay  the  bill,  and  offered  to  leave  the 
Old  Master  in  exchange.  When  people  do  this 
it  very  often  comes  off,  for  the  alternative  is  only 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  man  in  gaol,  whereas 
a  picture  is  always  a  picture,  and  there  is  a 
gambler's  chance  of  its  turning  up  trumps.  So 
t  he  man  grumbled  and  took  the  little  thing.  He 
hung  it  up  in  the  best  room  of  the  inn,  where  he 
gave  his  richer  customers  food. 

Thus  it  was  that  a  young  gentleman  who  had 
come  down  to  ride  in  that  neighbourhood, 


On  Something 

although  he  did  not  know  any  of  the  rich  people 
round  about,  saw  it  one  day,  and  on  seeing  it 
exclaimed  loudly  in  an  unknown  tongue ;  but  he 
very  rapidly  repressed  his  emotion  and  simply 
told  the  innkeeper  that  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
the  daub  and  would  give  him  thirty  shillings  for  it. 

The  innkeeper,  who  had  read  in  the  news- 
papers of  how  pictures  of  the  utmost  value  are 
sold  by  fools  for  a  few  pence,  said  boldly  that  his 
price  was  twenty  pounds  ;  whereupon  the  young 
gentleman  went  out  gloomily,  and  the  innkeeper 
thought  that  he  must  have  made  a  mistake,  and 
was  for  three  hours  depressed.  But  in  the  fourth 
hour  again  he  was  elated,  for  the  young  gentle- 
man came  back  with  twenty  pounds,  not  even  in 
notes  but  in  gold,  paid  it  down,  and  took  away 
the  picture.  Then  again,  in  the  fifth  hour  was 
the  innkeeper  a  little  depressed,  but  not  as  much 
as  before,  for  it  struck  him  that  the  young  gentle- 
man must  have  been  very  eager  to  act  in  such  a 
fashion,  and  that  perhaps  he  could  have  got  as 
much  as  twenty-one  pounds  by  holding  out  and 
calling  it  guineas. 

The  young  gentleman  telegraphed  to  his 
father  (who  lived  in  Wimbledon  but  who  did 
business  in  Bond  Street)  saying  that  he  had  got 
hold  of  a  Van  Tromp  which  looked  like  a  study 
for  the  big  "Eversley"  Van  Tromp  in  the  Gallery, 
and  he  wanted  to  know  what  his  father  would 
32 


On  a  Van  Tromp 

give  for  it.  His  father  telegraphed  back  inviting 
him  to  spend  one  whole  night  under  the  family 
roof.  This  the  young  man  did,  and,  though  it 
wrung  the  old  father's  heart  to  have  to  do  it,  by 
the  time  he  had  seen  the  young  gentleman's 
find  (or  trouvaille  as  he  called  it)  he  had  given  his 
offspring  a  cheque  for  five  hundred  pounds. 
Whereupon  the  young  gentleman  left  and  went 
back  to  do  some  more  riding,  an  exercise  of 
which  he  was  passionately  fond,  and  to  which  he 
had  trained  several  quiet  horses. 

The  father  wrote  to  a  certain  lord  of  his 
acquaintance  who  was  very  fond  of  Van  Tromps, 
and  offered  him  this  replica  or  study,  in  some 
ways  finer  than  the  original,  but  he  said  it  must 
be  a  matter  for  private  negotiation ;  so  he  asked 
for  an  appointment,  and  the  lord,  who  was  a  tall, 
red-faced  man  with  a  bluff  manner,  made  an  ap- 
pointment for  nine  o'clock  next  morning,  which 
was  rather  early  for  Bond  Street.  But  money  talks, 
and  they  met.  The  lord  was  very  well  dressed, 
and  when  he  talked  he  folded  his  hands  (which 
had  gloves  on  them)  over  the  knob  of  his  stick 
and  pressed  his  stick  firmly  upon  the  ground.  It 
was  a  way  he  had.  But  it  did  not  frighten  the 
old  gentleman  who  did  business  in  Bond  Street, 
and  the  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  the  lord 
did  not  get  the  picture  until  he  had  paid  three 
thousand  guineas — not  pounds,  mind  you.  For 
3  33 


On  Something 

this  sum  the  picture  was  to  be  sent  round  to  the 
lord's  house,  and  so  it  was,  and  there  it  would 
have  stayed  but  for  a  very  curious  accident.  The 
lord  had  put  the  greater  part  of  his  money  into  a 
company  which  was  developing  the  resources  of 
the  South  Shetland  Islands,  and  by  some  mis- 
calculation or  other  the  expense  of  this  experi- 
ment proved  larger  than  the  revenues  obtainable 
from  it.  His  policy,  as  I  need  hardly  tell  you, 
was  to  hang  on,  and  so  he  did,  because  in  the 
long  run  the  property  must  pay.  And  so  it 
would  if  they  could  have  gone  on  shelling  out  for 
ever,  but  they  could  not,  and  so  the  whole  affair 
was  wound  up  and  the  lord  lost  a  great  deal  of 
money. 

Under  these  circumstances  he  bethought  him 
of  the  toiling  millions  who  never  see  a  good 
picture  and  who  have  no  more  vivid  appetite 
than  the  hunger  for  good  pictures.  He  therefore 
lent  his  collection  of  Van  Tromps  with  the  least 
possible  delay  to  a  public  gallery,  and  for  many 
years  they  hung  there,  while  the  lord  lived  in 
great  anxiety,  but  with  a  sufficient  income  for 
his  needs  in  the  delightful  scenery  of  the  Pen- 
nines  at  some  distance  from  a  railway  station, 
surrounded  by  his  tenants.  At  last  even  these — 
the  tenants,  I  mean — were  not  sufficient,  and  a 
gentleman  in  the  Government  who  knew  the 
value  of  Van  Tromps  proposed  that  these  Van 
34 


On  a  Van  Tromp 

Tromps  should  be  bought  for  the  nation ;  but  a 
lot  of  cranks  made  a  frightful  row,  both  in 
Parliament  and  out  of  it,  so  that  the  scheme 
would  have  fallen  through  had  not  one  of  the 
Van  Tromps — to  wit,  that  little  copy  of  a  corner 
which  was  obviously  a  replica  of  or  a  study  for 
the  best-known  of  the  Van  Tromps — been  pro- 
claimed false  quite  suddenly  by  a  gentleman  who 
doubted  its  authenticity ;  whereupon  everybody 
said  that  it  was  not  genuine  except  three  people 
who  really  counted,  and  these  included  the 
gentleman  who  had  recommended  the  purchase 
of  the  Van  Tromps  by  the  nation.  So  enormous 
was  the  row  upon  the  matter  that  the  picture 
reached  the  very  pinnacle  of  fame,  and  an 
Australian  then  travelling  in  England  was  deter- 
mined to  get  that  Van  Tromp  for  himself,  and 
did. 

This  Australian  was  a  very  simple  man,  good 
and  kind  and  childlike,  and  frightfully  rich. 
When  lie  had  got  the  Van  Tromp  he  carried  it 
about  with  him,  and  at  the  country  houses  where 
he  stopped  he  used  to  pull  it  out  and  show  it  to 
people.  It  happened  that  among  other  country 
houses  he  stopped  once  at  the  hunchback  squire's, 
whose  name,  as  you  will  remember,  was  Mr. 
Hammer,  and  he  showed  him  the  Van  Tromp 
one  day  after  dinner. 

Now  Mr.  Hammer  was  by  this  time  an  old  man, 
35 


On   Something 

and  he  had  ceased  to  care  much  for  the  things  of 
this  world.  He  had  suffered  greatly,  and  he  had 
begun  to  think  about  religion ;  also  he  had  made 
a  good  deal  of  money  in  Egyptians  (for  all  this 
was  before  the  slump).  And  he  was  pretty  well 
ashamed  of  his  pastiches ;  so,  one  way  and  another, 
the  seeing  of  that  picture  did  not  have  the  effect 
upon  him  which  you  might  have  expected ;  for 
you,  the  reader,  have  read  this  story  in  five 
minutes  (if  you  have  had  the  patience  to  get  so 
far),  but  he,  Mr.  Hammer,  had  been  changing  and 
changing  for  years,  and  I  tell  you  he  did  not  care 
a  dump  what  happened  to  the  wretched  thing. 
Only  when  the  Australian,  who  was  good  and 
simple  and  kind  and  hearty,  showed  him  the 
picture  and  asked  him  proudly  to  guess  what  he 
had  given  for  it,  then  Mr.  Hammer  looked  at 
him  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  full  of  that  not  mortal 
sadness  which  accompanies  irremediable  despair. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered  gently  and  with 
a  sob  in  his  voice. 

"I  paid  for  that  picture,"  said  the  Australian, 
in  the  accent  and  language  of  his  native  clime, 
"no  less  a  sum  than  £1500  .  .  .  and  I'd  pay  it 
again  to-morrow  !  "  Saying  this,  the  Australian 
hit  the  table  with  the  palm  of  his  hand  in  a 
manner  so  manly  that  an  aged  retainer  who  was 
putting  coals  upon  the  fire  allowed  the  coal- 
scuttle to  drop. 


On  a  Van  Tromp 

But  Mr.  Hammer,  ruminating  in  his  mind  all 
the  accidents  and  changes  and  adventures  of 
human  life,  its  complexity,  its  unfulfilled  desires, 
its  fading  but  not  quite  perishable  ideals,  well 
knowing  how  men  are  made  happy  and  how  un- 
happy, ventured  on  no  reply.  Two  great  tears 
gathered  in  his  eyes,  and  he  would  have  shed 
them,  perhaps  to  be  profusely  followed  by  more 
— he  was  nearly  breaking  down — when  he  looked 
up  and  saw  on  the  wall  opposite  him  seven 
pastiches  which  he  had  made  in  the  years  gone 
by.  There  was  a  Titian  and  a  George  Morland, 
a  Chardin,  t\vo  cows  after  Cooper,  and  an  im- 
pressionist picture  after  some  Frenchman  whose 
name  he  had  forgotten. 

"  You  like  pictures  ?  "  he  said  to  the  Australian, 
the  tears  still  standing  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  do  !  "  said  the  Australian  with  conviction. 

"Will  you  let  me  give  you  these?  "  said  Mr. 
Hammer. 

The  Australian  protested  that  such  things 
could  not  be  allowed,  but  he  was  a  simple  man, 
and  at  last  he  consented,  for  he  was  immensely 
pleased. 

"It  is  an  ungracious  thing  to  make  con- 
ditions," said  Mr.  Hammer,  "  and  I  won't  make 
any,  only  I  should  be  pleased  if,  in  your  island 
home  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  live  011  an  island,"  said  the  Australian. 
37 


On  Something 

Mr.  Hammer  remembered  the  map  of  Australia, 
with  the  water  all  round  it,  but  he  was  too  polite 
to  argue. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  he  said  ;  "  you  live  on  the 
mainland ;  I  forgot.  But  anyhow,  I  should  be  so 
pleased  if  you  would  promise  me  to  hang  them  all 
together,  these  pictures  with  your  Van  Tromp, 
all  in  a  line  !  I  really  should  be  so  pleased  !  " 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  the  Australian,  a  little 
bewildered  ;  "  I  will  do  so,  Mr.  Hammer,  if  it  can 
give  you  any  pleasure." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Hammer,  in  a  break- 
ing voice,  "  I  had  that  picture  once,  and  I  in- 
tended it  to  hang  side  by  side  with  these." 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  Australian,  on  hearing 
this,  poured  out  self-reproaches,  offered  with  an 
expansion  of  soul  to  restore  it,  and  then  more 
prudently  attempted  a  negotiation.  Mr.  Hammer 
resolutely  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  an  old  man,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  no 
heirs  ;  it  is  not  for  me  to  take,  but  to  give,  and  if 
you  will  do  what  an  old  man  begs  of  you,  and 
accept  what  I  offer ;  if  you  will  do  more  and  of 
your  courtesy  keep  all  these  things  together 
which  were  once  familiar  to  me,  it  will  be  enough 
reward." 

The  next  day,  therefore,  the  Australian  sailed 
off  to  his  distant  continental  home,  carrying  with 
him  not  only  the  Chardin,  the  Titian,  the  Cooper, 


On  a  Van  Tromp 

the  impressionist  picture,  and  the  rest,  but  also 
the  Van  Tromp.  And  three  months  after  they 
all  hung  in  a  row  in  the  great  new  copper  room 
at  Warra-Mugga.  What  happened  to  them  later 
on,  and  how  they  were  all  sold  together  as  "  the 
Warra-Mugga  Collection,"  I  will  tell  you  when  I 
have  the  time  and  you  the  patience.  Farewell. 


39 


His  Character  *o 

A  CERTAIN  merchant  in  the  City  of  London, 
having  retired  from  business,  purchased  for 
himself  a  private  house  upon  the  heights  of 
Hampstead  and  proposed  to  devote  his  remaining 
years  to  the  education  and  the  establishment  in 
life  of  his  only  son. 

When  this  youth  (whose  name  was  George) 
had  arrived  at  the  age  of  nineteen  his  father 
spoke  to  him  after  dinner  upon  his  birthday  with 
regard  to  the  necessity  of  choosing  a  profession. 
He  pointed  out  to  him  the  advantages  of  a  com- 
mercial career,  and  notably  of  that  form  of  useful 
industry  which  is  known  as  banking,  showing  how 
in  that  trade  a  profit  was  to  be  made  by  lending 
the  money  of  one  man  to  another,  and  often  of  a 
man's  own  money  to  himself,  without  engaging 
one's  own  savings  or  fortune. 

George,  to  whom  such  matters  were  unfamiliar, 
listened  attentively,  and  it  seemed  to  him  with 
every  word  that  dropped  from  his  father  that  a 
wider  and  wider  horizon  of  material  comfort  and 
worldly  grandeur  was  spreading  out  before  him. 
He  had  hitherto  had  no  idea  that  such  great 
40 


His  Character 

rewards  were  attached  to  services  so  slight  in 
themselves,  and  certainly  so  valueless  to  the  com- 
munity. The  career  sketched  out  for  him  by  his 
father  appealed  to  him  most  strongly,  and  when 
that  gentleman  had  completed  his  advice  he 
assured  him  that  he  would  follow  it  in  every 
particular. 

George's  father  was  overjoyed  to  find  his  son  so 
reasonable.  He  sat  down  at  once  to  write  the 
note  which  he  had  planned,  to  an  old  friend  and 
connection  by  marriage,  Mr.  Repton,  of  Repton 
and  Greening  ;  he  posted  it  that  night  and  bade 
the  lad  prepare  for  the  solemnity  of  a  private 
interview  with  the  head  of  the  firm  upon  the 
morrow. 

Before  George  left  the  house  next  morning  his 
father  laid  before  him,  with  the  pomp  which  so 
great  an  occasion  demanded,  certain  rules  of  con- 
duct which  should  guide  not  only  his  entry  into 
life  but  his  whole  conduct  throughout  its  course. 
He  emphasized  the  value  of  self-respect,  of  a 
decent  carriage,  of  discretion,  of  continuous  and 
tenacious  habits  of  industry,  of  promptitude,  and 
so  forth  ;  when,  urged  by  I  know  not  what  demon 
whose  pleasure  it  is  ever  to  disturb  the  best  plans 
of  men,  the  old  gentleman  had  the  folly  to  add 
the  following  words  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  laid 
his  hand  heavily  upon  his  son's  shoulder  : 

"  Above  all  things,  George,  tell  the  truth.  I 
41 


On   Something 

was  young  and  now  am  old.  I  have  seen  many 
men  fail,  some  few  succeed  ;  and  the  best  advice 
I  can  give  to  my  dear  only  son  is  that  on  all  occa- 
sions he  should  fearlessly  and  manfully  tell  the 
truth  without  regard  of  consequence.  Believe 
me,  it  is  not  only  the  whole  root  of  character, 
but  the  best  basis  for  a  successful  business  career 
even  to-day." 

Having  so  spoken,  the  old  man,  more  moved 
than  he  cared  to  show,  went  upstairs  to  read  his 
newspaper,  and  George,  beautifully  dressed,  went 
out  by  the  front  door  towards  the  Tube,  pondering 
very  deeply  the  words  his  father  had  just  used. 

I  cannot  deny  that  the  impression  they  pro- 
duced upon  him  was  extraordinary — far  more 
vivid  than  men  of  mature  years  can  easily  con- 
ceive. It  is  often  so  in  early  youth  when  we 
listen  to  the  voice  of  authority ;  some  particular 
chance  phrase  will  have  an  unmeasured  effect 
upon  one.  A  worn  tag  and  platitude  solemnly 
spoken,  and  at  a  critical  moment,  may  change 
the  whole  of  a  career.  And  so  it  was  with 
George,  as  you  will  shortly  perceive.  For  as  he 
rumbled  along  in  the  Tube  his  father's  words 
became  a  veritable  obsession  within  him  :  he  saw 
their  value  ramifying  in  a  multitude  of  direc- 
tions, he  perceived  the  strength  and  accuracy  of 
them  in  a  hundred  aspects.  He  knew  well  that 
the  interview  he  was  approaching  was  one  in 
42 


His  Character 

which  this  virtue  of  truth  might  be  severely 
tested,  but  he  gloried  in  the  opportunity,  and  he 
came  out  of  the  Tube  into  the  fresh  air  within  a 
step  of  Mr.  Repton's  office  with  set  lips  and  his 
young  temper  braced  for  the  ordeal. 

When  he  got  to  the  office  there  was  Mr. 
Repton,  a  kindly  old  gentleman,  wearing  large 
spectacles,  and  in  general  appearance  one  of 
those  genial  types  from  which  our  caricaturists 
have  constructed  the  national  figure  of  John  Bull. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  be  in  the  presence  of  so 
honest  a  man,  and  in  spite  of  George's  extreme 
nervousness  he  felt  a  certain  security  in  such 
company.  Moreover,  Mr.  Repton  smiled  pater- 
nally at  him  before  putting  to  him  the  few  ques- 
tions which  the  occasion  demanded.  He  held 
George's  father's  letter  between  two  fingers  of 
his  right  hand,  moving  it  gently  in  the  air  as  he 
addressed  the  lad  : 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  George,"  he  said, 
"  in  this  old  office.  I've  seen  you  here  before, 
Chrm  !  as  you  know,  but  not  on  such  important 
business,  Chrm!"  He  laughed  genially.  "So 
you  want  to  come  and  learn  your  trade  with  us, 
do  you  ?  You're  punctual  I  hope,  Chrm  ?  "  he 
added,  his  honest  eyes  full  of  good  nature  and 
jest. 

George  looked  at  him  in  a  rather  gloomy 
manner,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  under 
43 


On  Something 

the  influence  of  an  obvious  effort,  said  in  a  chok- 
ing voice,  "No,  Mr.  Repton,  I'm  not." 

"Hey,  what?"  said  Mr.  Repton,  puzzled  and  a 
little  annoyed  at  the  young  man's  manner. 

"I  was  saying,  Mr.  Repton,  that  I  am  not 
punctual.  I  have  dreamy  fits  which  sometimes 
make  me  completely  forget  an  appointment. 
And  I  have  a  silly  habit  of  cutting  things  too 
fine,  which  makes  me  miss  trains  and  things.  I 
think  I  ought  to  tell  you  while  I  am  about  it,  but 
I  simply  cannot  get  up  early  in  the  morning. 
There  are  days  when  I  manage  to  do  so  under 
the  excitement  of  a  coming  journey  or  for  some 
other  form  of  pleasure,  but  as  a  rule  I  postpone 
my  rising  until  the  very  latest  possible  moment." 

George  having  thus  delivered  himself  closed 
his  lips  and  was  silent. 

"Humph!"  said  Mr.  Repton.  It  was  not 
what  the  boy  had  said  so  much  as  the  impression 
of  oddness  which  affected  that  worthy  man.  He 
did  not  like  it,  and  he  was  not  quite  sure  of  his 
ground.  He  was  about  to  put  another  question, 
when  George  volunteered  a  further  statement  : 

"I  don't  drink,"  he  said,  "and  at  my  age  it  is 
not  easy  to  understand  what  the  vice  of  continual 
drunkenness  may  be,  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
that  would  be  my  temptation  later  on,  and  it  is 
only  fair  to  tell  you  that,  young  as  I  am,  I  have 
twice  grossly  exceeded  in  wine  ;  on  one  occasion, 
44 


His  Character 

not  a  year  ago,  the  servants  at  a  house  where  I 
was  stopping  carried  me  to  bed." 

"They  did?"  said  Mr.  Repton  drily. 

"  Yes/'  said  George,  "  they  did."  Then  there 
was  a  silence  for  a  space  of  at  least  three  minutes. 

"  My  dear  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Repton,  rising, 
"do  you  feel  any  aptitude  for  a  City  career?" 

"None,"  said  George  decisively. 

"  Pray,"  said  Mr.  Repton  (who  had  grown-up 
children  of  his  own  and  could  not  help  speaking 
with  a  touch  of  sarcasm — he  thought  it  good  for 
boys  in  the  lunatic  stage),  "pray,"  said  he,  look- 
ing quizzically  down  at  the  unhappy  but  firm- 
minded  George  as  he  sat  there  in  his  chair,  "is 
there  any  form  of  work  for  which  you  do  feel  an 
aptitude  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  George  confidently. 

"  And  what  is  that  ? "  said  Mr.  Repton,  his 
smile  beginning  again. 

"The  drama,"  said  George  without  hesitation, 
"  the  poetic  drama.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  received  no  encouragement  from  those  who 
are  the  best  critics  of  this  art,  though  I  have 
submitted  my  work  to  many  since  I  left  school. 
Some  have  said  that  my  work  was  commonplace, 
others  that  it  was  imitative  ;  all  have  agreed  that 
it  was  dull,  and  they  have  unanimously  urged  me 
to  abandon  every  thought  of  such  composition. 
Nevertheless  I  am  convinced  that  I  have  the 
45 


On  Something 

highest  possible  talents  not  only  in  this  depart- 
ment of  letters  but  in  all." 

"You  believe  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Repton,  with 
a  touch  of  severity,  "  to  be  an  exceptional  young 


man  : 


George  nodded.  "  I  do/'  he  said,  "quite 
exceptional.  I  should  have  used  a  stronger  term 
had  I  been  speaking  of  the  matter  myself.  I 
think  I  have  genius,  or,  rather,  I  am  sure  I  have  ; 
and,  what  is  more,  genius  of  a  very  high  order." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Repton,  sighing,  "I  don't 
think  we  shall  get  any  forrader.  Have  you  been 
working  much  lately  ? "  he  asked  anxiously — 
"  examinations  or  anything  ?  " 

"No,"  said  George  quietly.  "I  always  feel 
like  this." 

"  Indeed ! "  said  Mr.  Repton,  who  was  now 
convinced  that  the  poor  boy  had  intended  no 
discourtesy.  "  Well,  I  wonder  whether  you 
would  mind  taking  back  a  note  to  your  father?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  George  courteously. 

Mr.  Repton  in  his  turn  wrote  a  short  letter,  in 
which  he  begged  George's  father  not  to  take 
offence  at  an  old  friend's  advice,  recalled  to  his 
memory  the  long  and  faithful  friendship  between 
them,  pointed  out  that  outsiders  could  often  see 
things  which  members  of  a  family  could  not,  and 
wound  up  by  begging  George's  father  to  give 
George  a  good  holiday.  "Not  alone,"  he  con- 
46 


His  Character 

eluded  ;  "  I  don't  think  that  would  be  quite  safe, 
but  in  company  with  some  really  trustworthy 
man  a  little  older  than  himself,  who  won't  get  on 
his  nerves  and  yet  will  know  how  to  look  after 
him.  He  must  get  right  away  for  some  weeks," 
added  the  kind  old  man,  "  and  after  that  I  should 
advise  you  to  keep  him  at  home  and  let  him  have 
some  gentle  occupation.  Don't  encourage  him 
in  writing.  I  think  he  would  take  kindly  to 
gardening.  But  I  won't  write  any  more  :  I  will 
come  and  see  you  about  it." 

Bearing  that  missive  back  did  George  reach  his 
home.  .  .  .  All  this  passed  in  the  year  1 895,  and 
that  is  why  George  is  to-day  one  of  the  best 
electrical  engineers  in  the  country,  instead  of 
being  a  banker ;  and  that  shows  how  good  always 
comes,  one  way  or  another,  of  telling  the  truth. 


47 


On  Thruppenny  Bits         ^^         <^         <^. 

T)HILIP,  King  of  Macedon,  destroyer  of  the 
liberties  of  Greece,  and  father  to  Alexander 
who  tamed  the  horse  Bucephalus,  called  for  the 
tutor  of  that  lad,  one  Aristotle  (surnamed  the 
Teacher  of  the  Human  Race),  to  propound  to  him 
a  question  that  had  greatly  troubled  him  ;  for  in 
counting  out  his  money  (which  was  his  habit  upon 
a  washing  day,  when  the  Queen's  appetite  for 
afternoon  tea  and  honey  had  rid  him  of  her 
presence)  he  discovered  mixed  with  his  treasure 
such  an  intolerable  number  of  thruppenny  bits  as 
very  nearly  drove  him  to  despair. 

On  this  account  King  Philip  of  Macedon,  de- 
stroyer of  the  liberties  of  Greece,  sent  for  Aris- 
totle, his  hanger-on,  as  one  capable  of  answering 
any  question  whatsoever,  and  said  to  him  (when 
he  had  entered  with  a  profound  obeisance)  : 

"Come,  Aristotle,  answer  me  straight ;  what  is 
the  use  of  a  thruppenny  bit  ?  " 

"  Dread  sire,"   said  Aristotle,   standing  in  his 

presence  with  respect,  "  the  thruppenny  bit  is  not 

to  be  despised.     Men  famous  in  no  way  for  their 

style,   nor  even  for   their   learning,    have  main- 

48 


On  Thruppenny  Bits 

tained  life  by  inscribing  within  its  narrow 
boundaries  the  Lord's  Prayer,  the  Creed,  and  the 
Ten  Commandments,  while  others  have  used  it  as 
a  comparison  in  the  classes  of  astronomy  to  illus- 
trate the  angle  subtended  by  certain  of  the  orbs 
of  heaven.  The  moon,  whose  waxing  and  waning 
is  doubtless  familiar  to  Your  Majesty,  is  indeed 
but  just  hidden  by  a  thruppenny  bit  held  between 
the  finger  and  the  thumb  of  the  observer  extended 
at  the  full  length  of  any  normal  human  arm." 

"  Go  on,"  said  King  Philip,  with  some  irrita- 
tion ;  "  go  on  ;  go  on  ! '' 

"  The  thruppenny  bit,  Your  Majesty,  illustrates, 
as  does  no  other  coin,  the  wisdom  and  the  aptness 
of  the  duodecimal  system  to  which  the  Mace- 
donians have  so  wisely  clung  (in  common  with 
the  people  of  Scythia  and  of  Thrace,  and  the 
dumb  animals)  while  the  too  brilliant  Hellenes 
ran  wild  in  the  false  simplicity  of  the  decimal 
system.  The  number  twelve,  Your  Majesty  ..." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  King  Philip  im- 
patiently, "  I  have  heard  it  a  thousand  times  ! 
It  has  already  pei'suaded  me  to  abandon  the 
duodecimal  method  and  to  consign  to  the  severest 
tortures  any  one  who  mentions  it  in  my  presence 
again.  My  ten  fingers  are  good  enough  for  me  ! 
Go  on,  go  on  !  " 

"Sovran  Lord!"  continued  Aristotle,  "the 
thruppenny  bit  has  further  been  proved  in  a 
4  49 


On  Something 

thousand  ways  an  adjuvator  and  prime  helper  of 
the  Gods.  For  many  a  man  too  niggardly  to  give 
sixpence,,  and  too  proud  to  give  a  copper,  has 
dropped  this  coin  among  the  offerings  at  the 
Temple,  and  it  is  related  of  a  clergyman  in 
Armagh  (a  town  of  which  Your  Majesty  has 
perhaps  never  heard)  that  he  would  frequently 
address  his  congregation  from  the  rails  of  the 
altar,  pointing  out  the  excessive  number  of 
thruppenny  bits  which  had  been  offered  for  the 
sustenance  of  the  hierarchy,  threatening  to  sum- 
mon before  him  known  culprits,  and  to  return  to 
them  the  insufficient  oblation.  Again,  the  thrup- 
penny bit  most  powerfully  disciplines  the  soul  of 
man,  for  it  tries  the  temper  as  does  no  other 
coin,  being  small,  thin,  wayward,  given  to  hiding, 
and  very  often  useless  when  it  is  discovered. 
Learn  also,  King  of  Macedon,  that  the  thrup- 
penny bit  is  of  value  in  ritual  phrases,  and 
particularly  so  in  objurgations  and  the  calling 
down  of  curses,  and  in  the  settlement  of  evil  upon 
enemies,  and  in  the  final  expi'ession  of  contempt. 
For  to  compare  some  worthless  thing  to  a  far- 
thing, to  a  penny,  or  to  tuppence,  has  no  vigour 
left  in  it,  and  it  has  long  been  thought  ridiculous 
even  among  provincials  ;  a  threadbare,  worn,  and 
worthless  sort  of  sneer ;  but  the  thruppenny  bit 
has  a  sound  about  it  very  valuable  to  one  who 
would  insist  upon  his  superiority.  Thus  were 


On  Thruppenny  Bits 

some  rebel  or  some  demagogue  of  Athens  (for 
example)  to  venture  upon  the  criticism  of  Your 
Majesty's  excursions  into  philosophy,  in  order  to 
bring  those  august  theses  into  contempt,  his  argu- 
ment would  never  find  emphasis  or  value  unless  he 
were  to  terminate  its  last  phrase  by  a  snap  of  the 
fingers  and  the  mention  of  a  thruppenny  bit. 

'•'  King  Philip  of  Macedon,  most  prudent  of 
men,  learn  further  that  a  thruppenny  bit,  which 
to  the  foolish  will  often  seem  a  mere  expenditure 
of  threepence,  to  the  wise  may  represent  a 
saving  of  that  sum.  For  how  many  occasions  are 
there  not  in  which  the  inconsequent  and  lavish 
fool,  the  spendthrift,  the  young  heir,  the  com- 
mander of  cavalry,  the  empty,  gilded  boy,  will 
give  a  sixpence  to  a  messenger  where  a  thrup- 
penny bit  would  have  done  as  well  ?  For  silver 
is  the  craving  of  the  poor,  not  in  its  amount,  but 
in  its  nature,  for  nature  and  number  are  indeed 
two  things,  the  one  on  the  one  hand  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that,"  said  King  Philip  ; 
"  I  did  not  send  for  you  to  get  you  off  upon  those 
rails,  which  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
thruppenny  bits.  Be  concrete,  I  pray  you,  good 
Aristotle,"  he  continued,  and  yawned.  "  Stick 
to  things  as  they  are,  and  do  not  make  me 
remind  you  how  once  you  said  that  men  had 
thirty-six,  women  only  thirty-four,  teeth.  Do  not 
wander  in  the  void." 

5' 


On   Something 

"Arbiter  of  Hellas/'  said  Aristotle  gravely, 
when  the  King  had  finished  his  tirade,  "  the 
thruppenny  bit  has  not  only  all  that  character  of 
usefulness  which  I  have  argued  in  it  from  the  end 
it  is  designed  to  serve,  but  one  may  also  perceive 
this  virtue  in  it  in  another  way,  which  is  by  ob- 
servation. For  you  will  remember  how  when  we 
were  all  boys  the  fourpenny  bit  of  accursed 
memory  still  lingered,  and  how  as  against  it  the 
thruppenny  bit  has  conquered.  Which  is,  indeed, 
a  parable  taken  from  nature,  showing  that  what- 
ever survives  is  destined  to  survive,  for  that  is  in- 
deed in  a  way,  as  you  may  say,  the  end  of  survival." 

"  Precisely/'  said  King  Philip,  frowning  intel- 
lectually ;  "  I  follow  you.  I  have  heard  many 
talk  in  this  manner,  but  none  talk  as  well  as  you 
do.  Continue,  good  Aristotle,  continue." 

"  Your  Majesty,  the  matter  needs  but  little 
exposition,  though  it  contains  the  very  marrow  of 
truth,"  said  the  philosopher,  holding  up  in  a 
menacing  way  the  five  fingers  of  his  left  hand 
and  ticking  them  off  with  the  forefinger  of  his 
right.  "For  it  is  first  useful,  second  beautiful, 
third  valuable,  fourth  magnificent,  and,  fifthly, 
consonant  to  its  nature." 

"  Quite  true,"  said  King  Philip,  following  care- 
fully every  word  that  fell  from  the  wise  man's 
lips,  for  he  could  now  easily  understand. 

"  Very  well  then,  sire,"  said  Aristotle  in  a  live- 
52 


On  Thruppenny  Bits 

Her  tone,  charmed  to  have  captivated  the  attention 
of  his  Sovereign.  "  I  was  saying  that  which  sur- 
vives is  proved  worthy  of  survival,  as  of  a  man  and 
a  shark,  or  of  Athens  and  Macedonia,  or  in  many 
other  ways.  Now  the  thruppenny  bit,  having  sur- 
vived to  our  own  time,  has  so  proved  itself  in  that 
test,  and  upon  this  all  men  of  science  are  agreed. 

"  Then,  also,  King  Philip,  consider  how  the 
thruppenny  bit  in  another  and  actual  way,  not  of 
pure  reason  but,  if  I  may  say  so,  in  a  material 
manner,  commends  itself:  for  is  it  not  true  that 
whereas  all  other  nations  whatsoever,  being  by 
nature  servile,  will  use  a  nickel  piece  or  some 
other  denomination  for  whatever  is  small  but  is 
not  of  bronze,  the  Macedonians,  being  designed 
by  the  Gods  for  the  command  of  all  the  human 
race,  have  very  tenaciously  clung  to  the  thrup- 
penny bit  through  good  and  through  evil  repute, 
and  have  even  under  the  sternest  penalties  en- 
forced it  upon  their  conquered  subjects  ?  For 
when  Your  Majesty  discovered  (if  you  will  re- 
member) that  the  people  of  Euboea,  in  manifest 
contempt  of  your  Crown,  paid  back  into  Your 
Majesty's  treasury  all  their  taxes  in  the  shape  of 
thruppenny  bits  .  .  ." 

At  this  moment  King  Philip  gave  a  loud  shout, 
uttering  in  Greek  the  word  "Eureka,"  which 
signifies  (to  those  who  drop  their  aitches)  "  I've 
got  it." 

53 


On  Something 

"Got  what?"  said  the  philosopher,  startled 
into  common  diction  by  the  unexpected  interjec- 
tion of  the  despot. 

"Get  out!"  said  King  Philip.  "Do  you  sup- 
pose that  any  rambling  Don  is  going  to  take  up 
my  time  when  by  a  sheer  accident  his  verbosity 
has  started  me  on  a  true  scent?  Out,  Aristotle, 
out !  Or,  stay,  take  this  note  with  you  to  the 
Captain  of  the  Guard  " — and  King  Philip  hastily 
scribbled  upon  a  parchment  an  order  for  the 
immediate  execution  of  the  whole  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Euboea,  saving  such  as  could  redeem 
themselves  at  the  price  of  ten  drachmae,  the  said 
sum  upon  no  account  whatsoever  to  be  paid  in 
coin  containing  so  much  as  one  thruppenny  bit. 

But  the  offended  philosopher  had  departed, 
and  being  well  wound  up  could  not,  any  more 
than  any  other  member  of  the  academies,  cease 
from  spouting ;  so  that  King  Philip  was  in- 
tolerably aggravated  to  hear  him  as  he  waddled 
down  the  Palace  stairs  still  declaiming  in  a  loud 
tone  : 

"And,  sixteenthly,  the  thruppenny  bit  has 
about  it  this  noble  quality,  that  it  represents  an 
aliquot  part  of  that  sum  which  is  paid  to  me  daily 
from  the  Royal  Treasury  in  silver,  a  metal  upon 
which  we  have  always  insisted.  And,  seven- 
teenthly  .  .  ." 

But  King  Philip  banged  the  door. 
54 


On  the  Hotel  at  Palma  and  a   proposed 
Guide-book  ^>       *o 


T^HE  hotel  at  Palma  is  like  the  Savoy,  but  the 
cooking  is  a  great  deal  better.  It  is  large 
and  new  ;  its  decorations  are  in  the  modern  style 
with  twiddly  lines.  Its  luxury  is  greater  than 
that  of  its  London  competitor.  It  has  an  eager,, 
willing  porter  and  a  delightful  landlord.  You  do 
what  you  like  in  it  and  there  are  books  to  read. 
One  of  these  books  was  an  English  guide-book. 
I  read  it.  It  was  full  of  lies,  so  gross  and 
palpable  that  I  told  my  host  how  abominably  it 
traduced  his  country,  and  advised  him  first  to 
beat  the  book  well  and  then  to  burn  it  over  a 
slow  fire.  It  said  that  the  people  were  super- 
stitious —  it  is  false.  They  have  no  taboo  about 
days  ;  they  play  about  on  Sundays.  They  have 
no  taboo  about  drinks  ;  they  drink  what  they  feel 
inclined  (which  is  wine)  when  they  feel  inclined 
(which  is  when  they  are  thirsty).  They  have  no 
taboo  book,  Bible  or  Koran,  no  damned  psychical 
rubbish,  no  damned  "  folk-lore,"  no  triply  damned 
mumbo-jumbo  of  social  ranks  ;  kind,  really  good, 
simple-minded  dukes  would  have  a  devil  of  a 
time  in  Palma.  Avoid  it,  my  dears,  keep  away. 
55 


On  Something 

If  anything,  the  people  of  Palrua  have  not 
quite  enough  superstition.  They  play  there  for 
love,  money,  and  amusement.  No  taboo  (talking 
of  love)  about  love. 

The  book  said  they  were  poor.  Their  populace 
is  three  or  four  times  as  rich  as  ours.  They  own 
their  own  excellent  houses  and  their  own  land  ; 
no  one  but  has  all  the  meat  and  fruit  and 
vegetables  and  wine  he  wants,  and  usually  draught 
animals  and  musical  instruments  as  well. 

In  fact,  the  book  told  the  most  frightful  lies 
and  was  a  worthy  companion  to  other  guide- 
books. It  moved  me  to  plan  a  guide-book  of  my 
own  in  which  the  truth  should  be  told  about  all 
the  places  I  know.  It  should  be  called  "  Guide 
to  Northumberland,  Sussex,  Chelsea,  the  French 
frontier,  South  Holland,  the  Solent,  Lombardy, 
the  North  Sea,  and  Rome,  with  a  chapter  on  part 
of  Cheshire  and  some  remarks  on  the  United 
States  of  America." 

In  this  book  the  fault  would  lie  in  its  too  great 
scrappiness,  but  the  merit  in  its  exactitude.  Thus 
I  would  inform  the  reader  that  the  best  time  to 
sleep  in  Siena  is  from  nine  in  the  morning  till 
three  in  the  afternoon,  and  that  the  best  place 
to  sleep  is  the  north  side  of  St.  Domenic's  ugly 
brick  church  there. 

Again,  I   would  tell   him  that   the  man   who 
keeps  the  "Turk's  Head"  at  Valogne,  in  Nor- 
56 


On  the  Hotel  at  Paltna 

mandy,  was  only  outwardly  and  professedly  an 
Atheist,  but  really  and  inwardly  a  Papist. 

I  would  tell  him  that  it  sometimes  snowed  in 
Lombardy  in  June,  for  I  have  seen  it — and  that 
any  fool  can  cross  the  Alps  blindfold,  and  that 
the  sea  is  usually  calm,  not  rough,  and  that  the 
people  of  Dax  are  the  most  horrible  in  all  France, 
and  that  Lourdes,  contrary  to  the  general  opinion, 
does  work  miracles,  for  I  have  seen  them. 

I  would  also  tell  him  of  the  place  at  Toulouse 
where  the  harper  plays  to  you  during  dinner,  and 
of  the  grubby  little  inn  at  Terneuzen  on  the 
Scheldt  where  they  charge  you  just  anything 
they  please  for  anything ;  five  shillings  for  a  bit 
of  bread,  or  half  a  crown  for  a  napkin. 

All  these  things,  and  hundreds  of  others  of  the 
same  kind,  would  I  put  in  my  book,  and  at  the 
end  should  be  a  list  of  all  the  hotels  in  Europe 
where,  at  the  date  of  publication,  the  landlord 
was  nice,  for  it  is  the  character  of  the  landlords 
which  makes  all  the  difference — and  that  changes 
as  do  all  human  things. 

There  you  could  see  first,  like  a  sort  of  Primate 
of  Hotels,  the  Railway  Hotel  at  York.  Then 
the  inn  at  La  Bruyere  in  the  Landes,  then  the 
"Swan"  at  Petworth  with  its  mild  ale,  then  the 
"White  Hart"  of  Storrington,  then  the  rest  of 
them,  all  the  six  or  seven  hundred  of  them,  from  the 
"Elephant"  of  Chateau  Thierry  to  the  "Feathers" 
57 


On  Something 

of  Ludlow— a  truly  noble  remainder  of  what 
once  was  England ;  the  «  Feathers  "  of  Ludlow, 
where  the  beds  are  of  honest  wood  with  curtains 
to  them,  and  where  a  man  may  drink  half  the 
night  with  the  citizens  to  the  success  of  their 
engines  and  the  putting  out  of  all  fires.  For 
there  are  in  West  England  three  little  inns  in 
three  little  towns,  all  in  a  line,  and  all  beginning 
with  an  L — Ledbury,  Ludlow,  and  Leominster, 
all  with  "  Feathers,"  all  with  orchards  round,  and 
I  cannot  tell  which  is  the  best. 

Then  my  guide-book  will  go  on  to  talk  about 
harbours  ;  it  will  prove  how  almost  every  harbour 
was  impossible  to  make  in  a  little  boat ;  but  it 
would  describe  the  difficulties  of  each  so  that  a 
man  in  a  little  boat  might  possibly  make  them. 
It  would  describe  the  rush  of  the  tide  outside 
Margate  and  the  still  more  dangerous  rush  out- 
side Shoreham,  and  the  absurd  bar  at  Little- 
hampton  that  strikes  out  of  the  sea,  and  the  place 
to  lie  at  in  Newhaven,  and  how  not  to  stick  upon 
the  Platters  outside  Harwich  ;  and  the  very  tor- 
tuous entry  to  Poole,  and  the  long  channel  into 
Christchurch  past  Hengistbury  Head  ;  and  the 
enormous  tides  of  South  Wales ;  and  why  you 
often  have  to  beach  at  Britonferry,  and  the 
terrible  difficulty  of  mooring  in  Great  Yarmouth; 
and  the  sad  changes  of  Little  Yarmouth,  and  the 
single  black  buoy  at  Calais  which  is  much  too  far 
58 


On  the  Hotel  at  Palma 

out  to  be  of  any  use ;  and  how  to  wait  for  the 
tide  in  the  Swin.  And  also  what  no  book  has 
ever  yet  given,  an  exact  direction  of  the  way  in 
which  one  may  roll  into  Orford  Haven,  on  the 
top  of  a  spring  tide  if  one  has  luck,  and  how  if 
one  has  no  luck  one  sticks  on  the  gravel  and  is 
pounded  to  pieces. 

Then  my  guide-book  would  go  on  to  tell  of  the 
way  in  which  to  make  men  pleasant  to  you 
according  to  their  climate  and  country ;  of  how 
you  must  not  hurry  the  people  of  Aragon,  and 
how  it  is  your  duty  to  bargain  with  the  people 
of  Catalonia  ;  and  how  it  is  impossible  to  eat  at 
Daroca ;  and  how  careful  one  must  be  with 
gloomy  men  who  keep  inns  at  the  very  top 
of  glens,  especially  if  they  are  silent,  under 
Cheviot.  And  how  one  must  not  talk  religion 
when  one  has  got  over  the  Scotch  border,  with 
some  remarks  about  Jedburgh,  and  the  terrible 
things  that  happened  to  a  man  there  who 
would  talk  religion  though  he  had  been  plainly 
warned. 

Then  my  guide-book  would  go  on  to  tell  how 
one  should  climb  ordinary  mountains,  and  why 
one  should  avoid  feats ;  and  how  to  lose  a  guide 
which  is  a  very  valuable  art,  for  when  you  have 
lost  your  guide  you  need  not  pay  him.  My  book 
will  also  have  a  note  (for  it  is  hardly  worth  a 
chapter)  on  the  proper  method  of  frightening 
59 


On  Something 

sheep  dogs  when  they  attempt  to  kill  you  with 
their  teeth  upon  the  everlasting  hills. 

This  my  good  and  new  guide-book  (oh,  how  it 
blossoms  in  my  head  as  I  write !)  would  further 
describe  what  trains  go  to  what  places,  and  in 
what  way  the  boredom  of  them  can  best  be  over- 
come, and  which  expresses  really  go  fast ;  and  I 
should  have  a  footnote  describing  those  lines 
of  steamers  on  which  one  can  travel  for  nothing 
if  one  puts  a  sufficiently  bold  face  upon  the 
matter. 

My  guide-book  would  have  directions  for  the 
pacifying  of  Arabs,  a  trick  which  I  learnt  from  a 
past  master,  a  little  way  east  of  Batna  in  the  year 
1905.  I  will  also  explain  how  one  can  tell  time 
by  the  stars  and  by  the  shadow  of  the  sun  ;  upon 
what  sort  of  food  one  can  last  longest  and  how 
best  to  carry  it,  and  what  rites  propitiate,  if  they 
are  solemnized  in  a  due  order,  the  half-malicious 
fairies  which  haunt  men  when  they  are  lost  in 
lonely  valleys,  right  up  under  the  high  peaks 
of  the  world.  And  my  book  should  have  a  whole 
chapter  devoted  to  Ulysses. 

For  you  must  know  that  one  day  I  came  into 
Narbonne  where  I  had  never  been  before,  and  I 
saw  written  up  in  large  letters  upon  a  big,  ugly 
house : 

ULYSSES, 

Lodging  for  Man  and  Beast. 
60 


On  the  Hotel  at  Palma 

So  I  went  in  and  saw  the  master,  who  had  a 
round  bullet  head  and  cropped  hair,  and  I  said 
to  him :  "  What !  Are  you  landed,  then,  after 
all  your  journeys  ?  And  do  I  find  you  at  last, 
you  of  whom  I  have  read  so  much  and  seen  so 
little  ? "  But  with  an  oath  he  refused  me 
lodging. 

This  tale  is  true,  as  would  be  every  other 
tale  in  my  book. 

What  a  fine  book  it  will  be  ! 


61 


The  Death  of  Wandering  Peter   ^>      <^ 

"  T  WILL  confess  and  I  will  not  deny,"  said 
-*-  Wandering  Peter  (of  whom  you  have  heard 
little  but  of  whom  in  God's  good  time  you  shall 
hear  more).  "  I  will  confess  and  I  will  not  deny 
that  the  chief  pleasure  I  know  is  the  contempla- 
tion of  my  fellow  beings." 

He  spoke  thus  in  his  bed  in  the  inn  of  a  village 
upon  the  River  Yonne  beyond  Auxerre,  in  which 
bed  he  lay  a-dying ;  but  though  he  was  dying  he 
was  full  of  words. 

"  What  energy  !  What  cunning  !  What 
desire  !  I  have  often  been  upon  the  edge  of  a 
steep  place,  such  as  a  chalk  pit  or  a  cliff  above  a 
plain,  and  watched  them  down  below,  hurrying 
around,  turning  about,  laying  down,  putting  up, 
leading,  making,  organizing,  driving,  considering, 
directing,  exceeding,  and  restraining  ;  upon  my 
soul  I  was  proud  to  be  one  of  them  !  I  have  said 
to  myself,"  said  Wandering  Peter,  "lift  up  your 
heart ;  you  also  are  one  of  these  !  For  though 
I  am,"  he  continued,  "a  wandering  man  and 
lonely,  given  to  the  hills  and  to  empty  places,  yet 
I  glory  in  the  workers  on  the  plain,  as  might  a 
62 


The  Death  of  Wandering  Peter 

poor  man  in  his  noble  lineage.  From  these  I 
came ;  to  these  in  my  old  age  I  would  have 
returned." 

At  these  words  the  people  about  his  bed  fell 
to  sobbing  when  they  thought  how  he  would 
never  wander  more,  but  Peter  Wanderwide 
continued  with  a  high  heart : 

"  How  pleasant  it  is  to  see  them  plough  !  First 
they  cunningly  contrive  an  arrangement  that 
throws  the  earth  aside  and  tosses  it  to  the  air, 
and  then,  since  they  are  too  weak  to  pull  the 
same,  they  use  great  beasts,  oxen  or  horses  or 
even  elephants,  and  impose  them  with  their  will, 
so  that  they  patiently  haul  this  contrivance 
through  the  thick  clods ;  they  tear  up  and  they 
put  into  furrows,  and  they  transform  the  earth. 
Nothing  can  withstand  them.  Birds  you  will 
think  could  escape  them  by  flying  up  into  the 
air.  It  is  an  error.  Upon  birds  also  my  people 
impose  their  view.  They  spread  nets,  food,  bait, 
trap,  and  lime.  They  hail  stones  and  shot  and 
arrows  at  them.  They  cause  some  by  a  perpetual 
discipline  to  live  near  them,  to  lay  eggs  and  to 
be  killed  at  will ;  of  this  sort  are  hens,  geese, 
turkeys,  ducks,  and  guinea  -  fowls.  Nothing 
eludes  the  careful  planning  of  man, 

"  Moreover,  they  can  build.  They  do  not 
build  this  way  or  that,  as  a  dull  necessity  forces 
them,  not  they  !  They  build  as  they  feel  inclined. 
63 


On  Something 

They  hew  down,  they  saw  through  (and  how 
marvellous  is  a  saw !),  they  trim  timber,  they  mix 
lime  and  sand,  they  excavate  the  recesses  of  the 
hills.  Oh  !  the  fine  fellows  !  They  can  at  whim 
make  your  chambers  or  the  Tower  prison,  or  my 
aunt's  new  villa  at  Wimbledon  (which  is  a  joke 
of  theirs),  or  St.  Pancras  Station,  or  the  Crystal 
Palace,  or  Westminster  Abbey,  or  St.  Paul's,  or 
Bon  Secours.  They  are  agreeable  to  every 
change  in  the  wind  that  blows  about  the  world. 
It  blows  Gothic,  and  they  say  '  By  all  means  '- 
and  there  is  your  Gothic — a  thing  dreamt  of  and 
done  !  It  suddenly  veers  south  again  and  blows 
from  the  Mediterranean.  The  jolly  little  fellows 
are  equal  to  the  strain,  and  up  goes  Amboise, 
and  Anet,  and  the  Louvre,  and  all  the  Renais- 
sance. It  blows  everyhow  and  at  random  as 
though  in  anger  at  seeing  them  so  ready.  They 
care  not  at  all !  They  build  the  Eiffel  Tower, 
the  Queen  Anne  house,  the  Mary  Jane  house, 
the  Modern-Style  house,  the  Carlton,  the  Ritz, 
the  Grand  Palais,  the  Trocadero,  Olympia, 
Euston,  the  Midhurst  Sanatorium,  and  old  Beit's 
Palace  in  Park  Lane.  They  are  not  to  be 
defeated,  they  have  immortal  certitudes. 

"Have  you  considered  their  lines  and  their 
drawings  and  their  cunning  plans  ? "  said  Wan- 
dering  Peter.      "  They  are   astonishing   there  ! 
Put  a  bit  of  charcoal  into   my  dog's  mouth  or 
64 


The  Death  of  Wandering  Peter 

my  pet  monkey's  paw — would  he  copy  the 
world  ?  Not  he  !  But  men — my  brothers — 
the i/  take  it  in  hand  and  make  war  against  the 
imspeaking  forces ;  the  trees  and  the  hills  are 
of  their  own  showing,  and  the  places  in  which 
they  dwell,  by  their  own  power,  become  full 
of  their  own  spirit.  Nature  is  made  more  by 
being  their  model,  for  in  all  they  draw,  paint, 
or  chisel  they  are  in  touch  with  heaven  and 
with  hell.  .  .  .  They  write  (Lord  !  the  intelli- 
gence of  their  men,  and  Lord !  the  beauty  of 
their  women).  They  write  unimaginable  things  ! 

"  They  write  epics,  they  write  lyrics,  they 
write  riddles  and  marching  songs  and  drinking 
songs  and  rhetoric,  and  chronicles,  and  elegies, 
and  pathetic  memories ;  and  in  everything  that 
they  write  they  reveal  things  greater  than  they 
know.  They  are  capable,"  said  Peter  Wander- 
wide,  in  his  dying  enthusiasm,  "of  so  writing 
that  the  thought  enlarges  upon  the  writing  and 
becomes  far  more  than  what  they  have  written. 
They  write  that  sort  of  verse  called  '  Stop-Short,' 
which  when  it  is  written  makes  one  think  more 
violently  than  ever,  as  though  it  were  an  intro- 
duction to  the  realms  of  the  soul.  And  then 
again  they  write  things  which  gently  mock 
themselves  and  are  a  consolation  for  themselves 
against  the  doom  of  death." 

But  when  Peter  Wanderwide  said  that  word 
5  65 


On  Something 

"death,"  the  howling  and  the  boo-hooing  of  the 
company  assembled  about  his  bed  grew  so  loud 
that  he  could  hardly  hear  himself  think.  For 
there  was  present  the  Mayor  of  the  village,  and 
the  Priest  of  the  village,  and  the  Mayor's  wife, 
and  the  Adjutant  Mayor  or  Deputy  Mayor,  and 
the  village  Councillor,  and  the  Road-mender,  and 
the  Schoolmaster,  and  the  Cobbler,  and  all  the 
notabilities,  as  many  as  could  crush  into  the  room, 
and  none  but  the  Doctor  was  missing. 

And  outside  the  house  was  a  great  crowd  of 
the  village  folk,  weeping  bitterly  and  begging 
for  news  of  him,  and  mourning  that  so  great 
and  so  good  a  man  should  find  his  death  in  so 
small  a  place. 

Peter  Wanderwide  was  sinking  very  fast,  and 
his  life  was  going  out  with  his  breath,  but  his 
heart  was  still  so  high  that  he  continued  although 
his  voice  was  failing: 

"  Look  you,  good  people  all,  in  your  little 
passage  through  the  daylight,  get  to  see  as  many 
hills  and  buildings  and  rivers,  fields,  books,  men, 
horses,  ships,  and  precious  stones  as  you  can 
possibly  manage  to  do.  Or  else  stay  in  one 
village  and  marry  in  it  and  die  there.  For 
one  of  these  two  fates  is  the  best  fate  for  every 
man.  Either  to  be  what  I  have  been,  a  wanderer 
with  all  the  bitterness  of  it,  or  to  stay  at  home 
and  hear  in  one's  garden  the  voice  of  God. 
66 


The  Death  of  Wandering  Peter 

"  For  my  part  I  have  followed  out  my  fate. 
And  I  propose  in  spite  of  my  numerous  iniquities, 
by  the  recollection  of  my  many  joys  in  the  glories 
of  this  earth,  as  by  corks,  to  float  myself  in  the 
sea  of  nothingness  until  I  reach  the  regions  of 
the  Blessed  and  the  pure  in  heart. 

"  For  I  think  when  I  am  dead  Almighty  God 
will  single  me  out  on  account  of  my  accoutrement, 
my  stirrup  leathers,  and  the  things  that  I  shall 
be  talking  of  concerning  Ireland  and  the  Peri- 
go  rd,  and  my  boat  upon  the  narrow  seas  ;  and 
I  think  He  will  ask  St.  Michael,  who  is  the  Clerk 
and  Registrar  of  battling  men,  who  it  is  that 
stands  thus  ready  to  speak  (unless  his  eyes  betray 
him)  of  so  many  things  ?  Then  St.  Michael  will 
forget  my  name  although  he  will  know  my  face  ; 
he  will  forget  my  name  because  I  never  stayed 
long  enough  in  one  place  for  him  to  remember  it. 

"  But  St.  Peter,  because  he  is  my  Patron  Saint 
and  because  I  have  always  had  a  special  devotion 
to  him,  will  answer  for  me  and  will  have  no 
argument,  for  he  holds  the  keys.  And  he  will 
open  the  door  and  I  will  come  in.  And  when 
I  am  inside  the  door  of  Heaven  I  shall  freely 
grow  those  wings,  the  pushing  and  nascence 
of  which  have  bothered  my  shoulder  blades  with 
birth  pains  all  my  life  long,  and  more  especially 
since  my  thirtieth  year.  I  say,  friends  and  com- 
panions all,  that  I  shall  grow  a  very  satisfying 
67 


On  Something 

and  supporting  pair  of  wings,  and  once  I  am  so 
furnished  I  shall  be  received  among  the  Blessed, 
and  I  shall  at  once  begin  to  tell  them,  as  I  told 
you  on  earth,  all  sorts  of  things,  both  false  and 
true,  with  regard  to  the  countries  through  which 
I  carried  forward  my  homeless  feet,  and  in 
which  I  have  been  given  such  fulfilment  for  my 
eyes." 

When  Peter  Wanderwide  had  delivered  him- 
self of  these  remarks,  which  he  did  with  great 
dignity  and  fire  for  one  in  such  extremity,  he 
gasped  a  little,  coughed,  and  died. 

I  need  not  tell  you  what  solemnities  attended 
his  burial,  nor  with  what  fervour  the  people 
flocked  to  pray  at  his  tomb ;  but  it  is  worth 
knowing  that  the  poet  of  that  place,  who  was 
rival  to  the  chief  poet  in  Auxerre  itself,  gathered 
up  the  story  of  his  death  into  a  rhyme,  written 
in  the  dialect  of  that  valley,  of  which  rhyme  this 
is  an  English  translation  : 

When  Peter  Wanderwide  was  young 
He  wandered  everywhere  he  would  ; 

And  all  that  he  approved  was  sung. 
And  most  of  what  he  saw  was  good. 

When  Peter  Wanderwide  was  thrown 
By  Death  himself  beyond  Auxerre, 

He  chanted  in  heroic  tone 

To  Priest  and  people  gathered  there  : 
68 


The  Death  of  Wandering  Peter 

"  If  all  that  I  have  loved  and  seen 
Be  with  me  on  the  Judgment  Day, 

I  shall  be  saved  the  crowd  between 
From  Satan  and  his  foul  array. 

"  Almighty  God  will  surely  cry 

'  St.  Michael !    Who  is  this  that  stands 

With  Ireland  in  his  dubious  eye, 
And  Perigord  between  his  hands, 

" '  And  on  his  arm  the  stirrup  thongs, 
And  in  his  gait  the  narrow  seas, 

And  in  his  mouth  Burgundian  songs, 
But  in  his  heart  the  Pyrenees  ?  ' 

"  St.  Michael  then  will  answer  right 
(But  not  without  angelic  shame)  : 

'  I  seem  to  know  his  face  by  sight ; 
I  cannot  recollect  his  name.   .  .   . ' 

"  St.  Peter  will  befriend  me  then, 
Because  my  name  is  Peter  too ; 

'  I  know  him  for  the  best  of  men 
That  ever  wallopped  barley  brew. 

" '  And  though  I  did  not  know  him  well, 
And  though  his  soul  were  clogged  with  sin, 

/  hold  the  keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 
Be  welcome,  noble  Peterkin.' 
69 


On  Something 

"Then  shall  I  spread  my  native  wings 
And  tread  secure  the  heavenly  floor, 

And  tell  the  Blessed  doubtful  things 
Of  Val  d'Aran  and  Perigord." 


This  was  the  last  and  solemn  jest 
Of  weary  Peter  Wanderwide, 

He  spoke  it  with  a  failing  zest, 
And  having  spoken  it,  he  died. 


70 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge      -0* 

'  I  ""HE  nation  known  to  history  as  the  Nephalo 
Ceclumenazenoi,  or,  more  shortly,  the  Nepioi, 
inhabited  a  fruitful  and  prosperous  district  con- 
sisting in  a  portion  of  the  mainland  and  certain 
islands  situated  in  the  Picrocholian  Sea ;  and  had 
there  for  countless  centuries  enjoyed  a  particular 
form  of  government  which  it  is  not  difficult  to 
describe,  for  it  was  religious  and  arranged  upon 
the  principle  that  no  ancient  custom  might  be 
changed. 

Lest  such  changes  should  come  about  through 
the  lapse  of  time  or  the  evil  passions  of  men,  the 
citizens  of  the  aforesaid  nation  had  them  very 
clearly  engraved  in  a  dead  language  and  upon 
bronze  tablets,  which  they  fixed  upon  the  doors  of 
their  principal  temple,  where  it  stood  upon  a  hill 
outside  the  city,  and  it  was  their  laudable  custom 
to  entrust  the  interpretation  of  them  not  to  aged 
judges,  but  to  little  children,  for  they  argued 
that  we  increase  in  wickedness  with  years,  and 
that  no  one  is  safe  from  the  aged,  but  that 
children  are,  alone  of  the  articulately  speaking 
race,  truth-tellers.  Therefore,  upon  the  first  day 


On  Something 

of  the  year  (which  falls  in  that  country  at  the 
time  of  sowing)  they  would  take  one  hundred  boys 
of  ten  years  of  age  chosen  by  lot,  they  would 
make  these  hundred,  who  had  previously  for  one 
year  received  instruction  in  their  sacred  lan- 
guage, write  each  a  translation  of  the  simple 
code  engraved  upon  the  bronze  tablets.  It  was 
invariably  discovered  that  these  artless  composi- 
tions varied  only  according  to  the  ability  of  the 
lads  to  construe,  and  that  some  considerable  pro- 
portion of  them  did  accurately  show  forth  in  the 
vernacular  of  the  time  the  meaning  of  those 
ancestral  laws.  They  had  further  a  magistrate 
known  as  the  Archon,  whose  business  it  was  to 
administrate  these  customs  and  to  punish  those 
who  broke  them.  And  this  Archon,  when  or  if 
he  proposed  something  contrary  to  custom  in  the 
opinion  of  not  less  than  a  hundred  petitioners, 
was  judged  by  a  court  of  children. 

In  this  fashion  for  thousands  of  years  did  the 
Nepioi  proceed  with  their  calm  and  ordinary 
lives,  enjoying  themselves  like  so  many  grigs, 
and  utterly  untroubled  by  those  broils  and 
imaginations  of  State  which  disturbed  their 
neighbours. 

There  was  a  legend  among  them  (upon  which 

the  whole  of  this  Constitution  was  based)  that  a 

certain  Hero,  one  Melek,  being  in  stature  twelve 

foot  high  and  no  less  than  93  inches  round  the 

72 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge 

chest,  had  landed  in  their  country  150,000  years 
previously,  and  finding  them  very  barbarous, 
slaying  one  another  and  unacquainted  with  the 
use  of  letters,  the  precious  metals,  or  the  art 
of  usury,  had  instructed  them  in  civilization, 
endowed  them  with  letters,  a  coinage,  police, 
lawyers,  instruments  of  torture,  and  all  the 
other  requisites  of  a  great  State,  and  had  finally 
di'awn  up  for  them  this  code  of  law  or  custom, 
which  they  carefully  preserved  engraved  upon 
the  tablets  of  bronze,  which  were  set  upon  the 
walls  of  their  chief  temple  on  the  hill  outside 
the  city. 

Within  the  temple  itself  its  great  shrine  and, 
so  to  speak,  its  very  cause  of  being  was  the  Hero's 
tomb.  He  lay  therein  covered  with  plates  of 
gold,  and  it  was  confidently  asserted  and  strictly 
and  unquestionably  believed  that  at  some  un- 
known time  in  the  future  he  would  come  out  to 
rule  them  for  ever  in  a  millennial  fashion — 
though  heaven  knows  they  were  happy  enough 
as  it  was. 

Among  their  customs  was  this  :  that  certain 
appointed  officers  would  at  every  change  in  the 
moon  proclaim  the  former  existence  and  virtue  of 
Melek,  his  residence  in  the  tomb,  and  his  claims 
to  authority.  To  enter  the  tomb,  indeed,  was 
death,  but  there  was  proof  of  the  whole  story  in 
documents  which  were  carefully  preserved  in  the 
73 


On  Something 

temple,  and  which  were  from  time  to  time  con- 
sulted and  verified.  The  whole  structure  of 
Nepioian  society  reposed  upon  the  sanctity  of 
this  story,  upon  the  presence  of  the  Hero  in  his 
tomb,  and  of  his  continued  authority,  for  with 
this  was  intertwined,  or  rather  upon  this  was 
based,  the  further  sanctity  of  their  customs. 

Things  so  proceeded  without  hurt  or  cloud 
until  upon  one  most  unfortunate  day  a  certain 
man,  bearing  the  vulgar  name  of  Megalocrates, 
which  signifies  a  person  whose  health  requires 
the  use  of  a  wide  head-gear,  discovered  that  a 
certain  herb  which  grew  in  great  abundance  in 
their  territory  and  had  hitherto  been  thought 
useless  would  serve  almost  every  purpose  of  the 
table,  sufficing,  according  to  its  preparation,  for 
meat,  bread,  vegetables,  and  salt,  and,  if  properly 
distilled,  for  a  liquor  that  would  make  the  Nepioi 
even  more  drunk  than  did  their  native  spirits. 

From  this  discovery  ensued  a  great  plenty 
throughout  the  land,  the  population  very  rapidly 
increased,  the  fortunes  of  the  wealthy  grew  to 
double,  treble,  and  four  times  those  which  had 
formerly  been  known,  the  middle  classes  adopted 
a  novel  accent  in  speech  and  a  gait  hitherto 
unusual,  while  great  numbers  of  the  poor  acquired 
the  power  of  living  upon  so  small  a  proportion  of 
foul  air,  dull  light,  stagnant  water,  and  mangy 
crusts  as  would  have  astonished  their  nicer  fore- 
74 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge 

fathers.  Meanwhile  this  great  period  of  pro- 
gress could  not  but  lead  to  further  discoveries, 
and  the  Nepioi  had  soon  produced  whole  colleges 
in  which  were  studied  the  arts  useful  to  mankind 
and  constantly  discovered  a  larger  and  a  larger 
number  of  surprising  and  useful  things.  At  last 
the  Nepioi  (though  this,  perhaps,  will  hardly  be 
credited)  were  capable  of  travelling  underground, 
Hying  through  the  air,  conversing  with  men  a 
thousand  miles  away  in  a  moment  of  time,  and 
committing  suicide  painlessly  whenever  there 
arose  occasion  for  that  exercise. 

It  may  be  imagined  with  what  reverence  the 
authors  of  all  these  boons,  the  members  of  the 
learned  colleges,  were  regarded ;  and  how  their 
opinions  had  in  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the  Nepioi 
an  unanswerable  character. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  in  one  of  these  colleges 
a  professor  of  more  than  ordinary  position 
emitted  one  day  the  opinion  that  Melek  had 
lived  only  half  as  long  ago  as  was  commonly  sup- 
posed. In  proof  of  this  he  put  forward  the 
undoubted  truth  that  if  Melek  had  lived  at  the 
time  he  was  supposed  to  have  lived,  then  he 
would  have  lived  twice  as  long  ago  as  he,  the  pro- 
fessor, said  that  he  had  lived.  The  more  old- 
fashioned  and  stupid  of  the  Nepioi  murmured 
against  such  opinions,  and  though  they  humbly 
confessed  themselves  unable  to  discover  any  flaw 
75 


On  Something 

in  the  professor's  logic,  they  were  sure  he  was 
wrong  somewhere  and  they  were  greatly  dis- 
turbed. But  the  opinion  gained  ground,  and, 
what  is  more,  this  fruitful  and  intelligent  surmise 
upon  the  part  of  the  professor  bred  a  whole  series 
of  further  theories  upon  Melek,  each  of  which 
contradicted  the  last  but  one,  and  the  latest  of 
which  was  always  of  so  limpid  and  so  self-evident 
a  truth  as  to  be  accepted  by  whatever  was  intelli- 
gent and  energetic  in  the  population,  and  espe- 
cially by  the  young  unmarried  women  of  the 
wealthier  classes.  In  this  manner  the  epoch  of 
Melek  was  reduced  to  five,  to  three,  to  two,  to 
one  thousand  years.  Then  to  five  hundred,  and 
at  last  to  one  hundred  and  fifty.  But  here  was  a 
trouble.  The  records  of  the  State,  which  had 
been  carefully  kept  for  many  centuries,  showed 
no  trace  of  Melek's  coming  during  any  part  of 
the  time,  but  always  referred  to  him  as  a  long- 
distant  forerunner.  There  was  not  even  any 
mention  of  a  man  twelve  foot  high,  nor  even  of 
one  a  little  over  93  inches  round  the  chest.  At 
last  it  was  proposed  by  an  individual  of  great 
courage  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  open  the 
tomb  of  Melek  and  afterwards,  if  they  so  pleased, 
suffer  death.  This  privilege  was  readily  granted 
to  him  by  the  Archon.  The  worthy  reformer,, 
therefore,  prised  open  the  sacred  shrine  and 
found  within  it  absolutely  nothing  whatsoever. 
76 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge 

Upon  this  there  arose  among  the  Nepioi  all 
manner  of  schools  and  discussions,  some  saying 
this  and  some  that,  but  none  with  the  certitude 
of  old.  Their  customs  fell  into  disrepute,  and 
even  the  very  professors  themselves  were  occa- 
sionally doubted  when  they  laid  down  the  law 
upon  matters  in  which  they  alone  were  competent 
— as,  for  instance,  when  they  asserted  that  the 
moon  was  made  of  a  peculiarly  delicious  edible 
substance  which  increased  in  savour  when  it  was 
preserved  in  the  store-rooms  of  the  housewives ; 
or  when  they  affirmed  with  every  appearance  of 
truth  that  no  man  did  evil,  and  that  wilful 
murder,  arson,  cruelty  to  the  innocent  and  the 
weak,  and  deliberate  fraud  were  of  no  more  dis- 
advantage to  the  general  state,  or  to  men  single, 
than  the  drinking  of  a  cup  of  cold  water. 

So  things  proceeded  until  one  day,  when  all 
custom  and  authority  had  fallen  into  this  really 
lamentable  deliquescence,  fleets  were  observed 
upon  the  sea,  manned  by  men-at-arms,  the 
admiral  of  which  sent  a  short  message  to  the 
Archon  proposing  that  the  people  of  the  country 
should  send  to  him  and  his  one-half  of  their 
yearly  wealth  for  ever,  "or,"  so  the  message 
proceeded,  "take  the  consequences."  Upon  the 
Archon  communicating  this  to  the  people  there 
arose  at  once  an  infinity  of  babble,  some  saying 
one  thing  and  some  another,  some  proposing  to 
77 


On   Something 

pay  neighbouring  savages  to  come  in  and  fight 
the  invaders,  others  saying  it  would  be  cheaper 
to  compromise  with  a  large  sum,  but  the  most 
part  agreeing  that  the  wisest  thing  would  be 
for  the  Archon  and  his  great-aunt  to  go  out  to 
the  fleet  in  a  little  boat  and  persuade  the  enemy's 
admiral  (as  they  could  surely  easily  do)  that 
while  most  human  acts  were  of  doubtful  responsi- 
bility and  not  really  wicked,  yet  the  invasion, 
and,  above  all,  the  impoverishment  of  the  Nepioi 
was  so  foul  a  wrong  as  would  certainly  call  down 
upon  its  fiendish  perpetrator  the  fires  of  heaven. 

While  the  Archon  and  his  great-aunt  were 
rowing  out  in  the  little  boat  a  few  doddering  old 
men  and  superstitious  females  slunk  off  to  con- 
sult the  bronze  tablets,  and  there  found  under 
Schedule  XII  these  words:  "If  an  enemy 
threaten  the  State,  you  shall  arm  and  repel 
him."  In  their  superstition  the  poor  old  chaps, 
with  their  half-daft  female  devotees  accompany- 
ing them,  tottered  back  to  the  crowds  to 
persuade  them  to  some  ridiculous  fanaticism  or 
other,  based  on  no  better  authority  than  the 
non-existent  Melek  and  his  absurd  and  exploded 
authority. 

Judge  of  their  horror  when,  as  they  neared  the 

city,  they  saw   from    the   height   whereon   the 

temple  stood  that  the  invaders  had  landed,  and, 

having  put  to  the  sword  all  the  inhabitants  with- 

78 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge 

out  exception,  were  proceeding  to  make  an  in- 
ventory of  the  goods  and  to  settle  the  place  as 
conquerors.  The  admiral  summoned  this  rem- 
nant of  the  nation,  and  hearing  what  they  had 
to  say  treated  them  with  the  greatest  courtesy 
and  kindness  and  pensioned  them  off  for  their 
remaining  years,  during  which  period  they  so 
instructed  him  and  his  fighting  men  in  the 
mysteries  of  their  religion  as  quite  to  convert 
them,  and  in  a  sense  to  found  the  Nepioian  State 
over  again  ;  but  it  should  be  mentioned  that  the 
admiral,  by  way  of  precaution,  changed  that  part 
of  the  religion  which  related  to  the  tomb  of 
Melek  and  situated  the  shrine  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  crater  of  an  active  volcano  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, which  by  night  and  day,  at  every 
season  of  the  year,  belched  forth  molten  rock 
so  that  none  could  approach  it  within  fifteen 
miles. 


79 


A  Norfolk  Man 

A  MONG  the  delights  of  historical  study  which 
'^^  makes  it  so  curiously  similar  to  travel,  and 
therefore  so  fatally  attractive  to  men  who  cannot 
afford  it,  is  the  element  of  discovery  and  surprise  : 
notably  in  little  details. 

When  in  travel  one  goes  along  a  way  one  has 
never  been  before  one  often  comes  upon  some- 
thing odd,  which  one  could  not  dream  was  there  : 
for  instance,  once  I  was  in  a  room  in  a  little  house 
in  the  south  and  thought  there  must  be  machinery 
somewhere  from  the  noise  I  heard,  until  a  man 
in  the  house  quietly  lifted  up  a  trapdoor  in  the 
floor,  and  there,  running  under  and  through  the 
house  a  long  way  below,  was  a  river :  the  River 
Garonne. 

It  is  the  same  way  in  historical  study.  You 
come  upon  the  most  exti-aordinary  things :  little 
things,  but  things  whose  unexpectedness  is 
enormous.  I  had  an  example  of  this  the  other 
day,  as  I  was  looking  up  some  last  details  to  make 
certain  of  the  affair  of  Valmy. 

Most  people  have  heard  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, and  many  people  have  heard  of  the  battle 
of  Valmy,  which  decided  the  first  fate  of  that 
80 


A  Norfolk  Man 

movement,  when  it  was  first  threatened  by  war. 
But  very  few  people  have  read  about  Valmy,  so 
it  is  necessary  to  give  some  idea  of  the  action  to 
understand  the  astonishing  little  thing  attaching 
to  it  which  I  am  about  to  describe. 

The  cannonade  of  Valmy  was  exchanged  be- 
tween a  French  Army  with  its  back  to  a  range  of 
hills  and  a  Prussian  Army  about  a  mile  away  over 
against  them.  It  was  as  though  the  French 
Army  had  stretched  from  Leatherhead  to  Epsom 
and  had  engaged  in  a  cannonade  with  a  Prussian 
Army  lying  over  against  them  in  a  position 
astraddle  of  the  road  to  Kingston. 

Through  this  range  of  hills  at  the  back  of  the 
French  Army  lay  a  gap,  just  as  there  is  a  gap 
through  the  hills  behind  Leatherhead.  Not  only 
was  that  gap  easily  passable  by  an  army — easily, 
at  least,  compared  with  the  hill  country  on  either 
side — but  it  had  running  through  it  the  great 
road  from  Metz  to  Paris,  so  that  advance  along  it 
was  rapid  and  practicable. 

It  so  happened  that  another  force  of  the  enemy 
besides  that  which  was  cannonading  the  French 
in  front  was  advancing  through  this  gap  from 
behind,  and  it  is  evident  that  if  this  second 
force  of  the  enemy  had  been  able  to  get  through 
the  gap  it  would  have  been  all  up  with  the 
French.  Dumouriez,  who  commanded  the  French, 
saw  this  well  enough  ;  he  had  ordered  the  gap  to 
6  81 


On  Something 

be  strongly  fortified  and  well  gunned  and  a  camp 
to  be  formed  there,  largely  made  up  of  Volunteers 
and  Irregulars.  On  the  proper  conduct  of  that 
post  depended  everything :  and  here  comes  the 
fun.  The  commander  of  the  post  was  not  what 
you  might  expect,  a  Frenchman  of  any  one  of 
the  French  types  with  which  the  Revolution  has 
made  us  familiar  :  contrariwise,  he  was  an  elderly 
private  gentleman  from  the  county  of  Norfolk. 

His  name  was  Money.  The  little  that  is 
known  about  him  is  entertaining  to  a  degree. 
His  own  words  prove  him  to  be  like  the  person 
in  the  song,  "  a  very  honest  man,"  and  luckily 
for  us  he  has  left  in  a  book  a  record  of  the  day 
(and  subsequent  actions)  stamped  vividly  with  his 
own  character.  John  Money :  called  by  his 
neighbours  General  John  Money,  not,  as  you 
might  expect,  General  Money :  a  man  devoted  to 
the  noble  profession  of  arms  and  also  eaten  up 
with  a  passion  for  ballooning. 

I  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  he  was  first  in 
action  at  the  age  of  nine  years  or  that  he  held 
King  George's  commission  as  a  Cornet  at  the  age 
of  ten.  He  does  not  tell  us  so  himself  nor  do 
any  of  his  friends.  The  surmise  is  that  of  our 
Universities,  and  it  is  worthy  of  them.  Clap  on 
ten  years  and  you  are  nearer  the  mark.  At  any 
rate  he  was  under  fire  in  1761,  and  he  was  a 
Cornet  in  1762;  a  Cornet  in  the  Inniskilling 
82 


A  Norfolk  Man 

Dragoons  with  a  commission  dated  on  the  1 1  th  of 
March  of  that  year.  Then  he  transformed  him- 
self into  a  Linesman,  got  his  company  in  the  9th 
Foot  eight  years  later,  and  eight  years  later  again, 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  American  War,  he  was 
a  major.  He  was  quarter-master-general  under 
Burgoyne,  he  was  taken  prisoner — I  think  at 
Saratoga,  but  anyhow  during  that  disastrous 
advance  upon  the  Hudson  Valley.  He  got  his 
lieutenant-colonelcy  towards  the  end  of  the  war. 
He  retired  from  the  Army  and  never  saw  active 
service  again.  When  the  Low  Countries  revolted 
against  Austria  he  offered  his  services  to  the  in- 
surgents and  was  accepted,  but  the  truly  enter- 
taining chapter  of  his  adventures  begins  when  he 
suggested  himself  to  the  French  Government  as 
a  very  proper  and  likely  man  to  command  a 
brigade  on  the  outbreak  of  the  great  war  with  the 
Empire  and  with  Prussia. 

Very  beautifully  does  he  tell  us  in  his  preface 
what  moved  him  to  that  act.  "Colonel  Money," 
he  says,  in  the  quiet  third  person  of  a  self- 
respecting  Norfolk  gentleman,  "  does  not  mean  to 
assign  any  other  reason  for  serving  the  armies  of 
France  than  that  he  loves  his  profession  and  went 
there  merely  to  improve  himself  in  it."  Spoken 
like  Othello ! 

He  dedicates  the  book,  by  the  way,  to  the 
Marquis  Townshend,  and  carefully  adds  that  he 
83 


On   Something 

has  not  got  permission  to  dedicate  it  to  that 
exalted  nobleman,  nay,  that  he  fears  that  he 
would  not  get  permission  if  he  asked  for  it.  But 
Lord  Townshend  is  such  a  rattling  good  soldier 
that  Colonel  Money  is  quite  sure  he  will  want  to 
hear  all  about  the  war.  On  which  account  he 
has  this  book  so  dedicated  and  printed  by  E. 
Harlow,  bookseller  to  Her  Majesty,  in  Pall  Mall. 

Before  beginning  his  narrative  the  excellent 
fellow  pathetically  says,  that  as  there  was  no 
war  a  little  time  before,  nor  apparently  any  like- 
lihood of  one,  "  Colonel  Money  once  intended  to 
serve  the  Turks"  ;  from  this  horrid  fate  a  Chris- 
tian Providence  delivered  him,  and  sent  him  to 
the  defence  of  Gaul. 

His  commission  was  dated  on  the  1 9th  of  July, 
1 792  ;  Marshal  of  the  Camps,  that  is,  virtually, 
brigadier-general.  He  is  very  proud  of  it,  and 
he  gives  it  in  full.  It  ends  up  "  Given  in  the 
year  of  Grace  1792  of  our  Reign  the  19th  and 
Liberty  the  4th.  Louis."  The  phrase,  in  accom- 
paniment with  the  signature  and  the  date,  is  not 
without  irony. 

Colonel  Money  could  never  stomach  certain 
traits  in  the  French  people. 

Before  he  left  Paris  for  his  command  on  the 

frontier  he  was  witness  to  the  fighting  when  the 

Palace  was  stormed  by  the  populace,  and  he  is 

our  authority  for  the  fact  that  the  5th  Battalion 

84 


A  Norfolk  Man 

of  Paris  Volunteers  stationed  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  helped  to  massacre  the  Swiss  Guard. 

"The  lieutenant-colonel  of  this  battalion/' 
writes  honest  John  Money,  "who  was  under  my 
command  during  part  of  the  campaign,  related 
to  me  the  circumstances  of  this  murder,  and 
apparently  with  pleasure.  He  said :  '  That  the 
unhappy  men  implored  mercy,  but,'  added  he, 
we  did  not  regard  this.  We  put  them  all  to 
death,  and  our  men  cut  off  most  of  their  heads 
and  fixed  them  on  their  bayonets.'  " 

Colonel  or,  as  he  then  was,  General  Money 
disapproves  of  this. 

He  also  disapproves  of  the  officer  in  command  of 
the  Marseillese,  and  says  he  was  a  "Tyger."  It 
seems  that  the  "Tyger"  was  dining  with  Theroigne 
de  Mericourt  and  three  English  gentlemen  in  the 
very  hotel  where  Money  was  stopping,  and  it  occurs 
to  him  that  they  might  have  broken  in  from  their 
drunken  revels  next  door  and  treated  him  unfriendly. 

Then  he  goes  to  the  frontier,  and  after  a  good 
deal  of  complaint  that  he  has  not  been  given  his 
proper  command  he  finds  himself  at  the  head  of 
that  very  important  post  which  was  the  saving  of 
the  Army  of  Valmy. 

Dumouriez,  who  always  talked  to  him  in 
English  (for  English  was  more  widely  known 
abroad  then  than  it  is  now,  at  least  among  gentle- 
men), had  a  very  great  opinion  of  Money  ;  but  he 
85 


On   Something 

deplores  the  fact  that  Money's  address  to  his 
soldiery  was  couched  "in  a  jargon  which  they 
could  not  even  begin  to  understand."  Money 
does  not  tell  us  that  in  his  account  of  the  fighting, 
but  he  does  tell  us  some  very  interesting  things, 
which  reveal  him  as  a  man  at  once  energetic  and 
exceedingly  simple.  He  left  the  guns  to  Galbaud, 
remarking  that  no  one  but  a  gunner  could  attend 
to  that  sort  of  thing,  which  was  sound  sense  ;  but 
the  Volunteers,  the  Line,  and  the  Cavalry  he 
looked  after  himself,  and  when  the  first  attack 
was  made  he  gave  the  order  to  fire  from  the 
batteries.  Just  as  they  were  blazing  away  Dillon, 
who  was  far  off  but  his  superior,  sent  word  to  the 
batteries  to  cease  firing.  Why,  nobody  knows. 
At  any  rate  the  orderly  galloped  up  and  told 
Money  that  those  were  Dillon's  orders.  On  which 
Money  very  charmingly  writes  : 

"I  told  him  to  go  back  and  tell  General  Dillon 
that  I  commanded  there,  and  that  whilst  the 
enemy  fired  shot  and  shell  on  me  /  should  con- 
tinue to  fire  back  on  them."  A  sentence  that 
warms  the  heart.  Having  thus  delivered  himself 
to  the  orderly,  he  began  pacing  up  and  down  the 
parapet  "to  let  my  men  see  that  there  was  not 
much  to  be  apprehended  from  a  cannonade." 

You  may  if  you  will  make  a  little  picture  of 
this  to  yourselves.  A  geat  herd  of  volunteers, 
some  of  whom  had  never  been  under  fire,  the 
86 


A  Norfolk  Man 

rest  of  whom  had  bolted  miserably  at  Verdun  a 
few  days  before,  men  not  yet  soldiers  and  almost 
without  discipline  :  the  batteries  banging  away  in 
the  wood  behind  them,  in  front  of  them  a  long 
earthwork  at  which  the  enemy  were  lobbing  great 
round  lumps  of  iron  and  exploding  shells,  and 
along  the  edge  of  this  earthwork  an  elderly 
gentleman  from  Norfolk,  in  England,  walking  up 
and  down  undisturbed,  occasionally  giving  orders 
to  his  army,  and  teaching  his  command  a  proper 
contempt  for  fire. 

He  adds  as  another  reason  why  he  did  not  cease 
fire  when  he  was  ordered  that  "without  doubt 
the  troops  would  have  thought  there  was  treason 
in  it,  and  I  had  probably  been  cut  in  pieces." 

He  did  not  understand  what  had  happened  at 
Valmy,  though  he  was  so  useful  in  securing  the 
success  of  that  day.  All  he  noted  was  that  after 
the  cannonade  Kellermann  had  fallen  back.  He 
rode  into  St.  Menehould,  where  Dumouriez's 
head-quarters  were,  ran  up  to  the  top  of  the 
steeple  and  surveyed  the  country  around  the 
enemy's  camp  with  an  enormous  telescope,  laid  a 
bet  at  dinner  of  five  to  one  that  the  enemy  would 
attack  again  (they  did  not  do  so,  and  so  he  lost 
his  bet,  but  he  says  nothing  about  paying  it),  and 
then  heard  that  France  had  been  decreed  a 
Republic.  His  comment  on  this  piece  of  news  is 
strong  but  cryptical.  "  It  was  surprising,"  he  says, 
"  to  see  what  an  effect  this  news  had  on  the  Army." 
87 


On  Something 

Every  sentence  betrays  the  personality  :  the 
keen,,  eccentric  character  which  took  to  balloons 
just  after  the  Montgolfiers,  and  fell  with  his 
balloon  into  the  North  Sea,  wrote  his  Treatise  on 
the  use  of  such  instruments  in  War,  and  was  never 
happy  unless  he  was  seeing  or  doing  something — 
preferably  under  arms.  And  in  every  sentence 
also  there  is  that  curious  directness  of  statement 
which  is  of  such  advantage  to  vivacity  in  any 
memoir.  Thus  of  Gobert,  who  served  under  him, 
he  has  a  little  footnote :  "  This  unfortunate  young 
man  lost  his  head  at  the  same  time  General 
Dillon  suffered,  and  a  very  amiable  young  man  he 
was,  and  an  excellent  officer." 

He  ends  his  book  in  a  phrase  from  which 
I  think  not  a  word  could  be  taken  nor  to  which  a 
word  could  be  added  without  spoiling  it.  I  will 
quote  it  in  full. 

"  The  reader,  I  trust,  will  excuse  my  having  so 
often  departed  from  the  line  of  my  profession  in 
giving  my  opinion  on  subjects  that  are  not 
military"  (for  instance,  his  objections  to  the 
head-cutting  business),  "  but  having  had  occasion 
to  know  the  people  of  France  I  freely  venture  to 
submit  my  judgments  to  the  public  and  have  the 
satisfaction  to  find  that  they  coincide  with  the 
opinion  of  those  who  know  that  extraordinary 
nation  still  better  than  myself." 


88 


The  Odd  People 


"T^HE  people  of  Monomotapa,  of  whom  I  have 
written  more  than  once,  I  have  recently  re- 
visited ;  and  I  confess  to  an  astonishment  at  the 
success  with  which  they  deal  with  the  various 
difficulties  and  problems  arising  in  their  social 
life. 

Thus,  in  most  countries  the  laws  of  property 
are  complex  in  the  extreme  ;  punishable  acts  in 
connexion  with  them  are  numerous  and  often 
difficult  to  define. 

In  Monomotapa  the  whole  thing  is  settled  in  a 
very  simple  manner  :  in  the  first  place,  instead 
of  strict  laws  binding  men  down  by  written 
words,  they  appoint  a  number  of  citizens  who 
shall  have  it  in  their  discretion  to  decide  whether 
a  man's  actions  are  worthy  of  punishment  or  no  ; 
and  these  appointed  citizens  have  also  the  power 
to  assign  the  punishment,  which  may  vary  from 
a  single  day's  imprisonment  to  a  lifetime.  So 
crimeless  is  the  country,  however,  that  in  a  popu- 
lation of  over  thirty  millions  less  than  twenty 
such  nominations  are  necessary  ;  I  must,  however, 
admit  that  these  score  are  aided  by  several  thou- 


On  Something 

sand  minor  judges  who  are  appointed  in  a  different 
manner. 

Their  method  of  appointment  is  this :  it  is 
discovered  as  accurately  as  may  be  by  a  man's 
manner  of  dress  and  the  hours  of  his  labour  and 
the  size  of  the  house  he  inhabits,  whether  he 
have  more  than  a  certain  yearly  revenue ;  any 
man  discovered  to  have  more  than  this  revenue 
is  immediately  appointed  to  the  office  of  which 
I  speak. 

The  power  of  these  assessors  is  limited,  how- 
ever, for  though  it  is  left  to  their  discretion 
whether  their  fellow-citizens  are  worthy  of  pun- 
ishment or  not,  yet  the  total  punishment  they 
can  inflict  is  limited  to  a  certain  number  of  years 
of  imprisonment.  In  old  times  this  sort  of  minor 
judge  was  not  appointed  in  Monomotapa  unless 
he  could  prove  that  he  kept  dogs  in  great  num- 
bers for  the  purposes  of  hunting,  and  at  least 
three  horses.  But  this  foolish  prejudice  has 
broken  down  in  the  progress  of  modern  enlight- 
enment, and,  as  I  have  said,  the  test  is  now 
extended  to  a  general  consideration  of  clothes, 
the  size  of  the  house  inhabited,  and  the  amount 
of  leisure  enjoyed,  the  type  of  tobacco  smoked, 
and  other  equally  reasonable  indications  of  judicial 
capacity. 

The  men  thus  chosen  to  consider  the  actions 
of  their  fellow-citizens  in  courts  of  law  are 
90 


The  Odd  People 

rewarded  in  two  ways  :  the  first  small  body  who 
are  the  more  powerful  magistrates  are  given  a 
hundred  times  the  income  of  an  ordinary  citizen, 
for  it  is  claimed  that  in  this  way  not  only  are  the 
best  men  for  the  purpose  obtained,  but,  further, 
so  large  a  salary  makes  all  temptation  to  bribery 
impossible  and  secures  a  strict  impartiality  be- 
tween rich  and  poor. 

The  lesser  judges,  on  the  other  hand,  are  paid 
nothing,  for  it  is  wisely  pointed  out  that  a  man 
who  is  paid  nothing  and  who  volunteers  his  ser- 
vices to  the  State  will  not  be  the  kind  of  a  man 
who  would  take  a  bribe  or  who  would  consider 
social  differences  in  his  judgments. 

It  is  further  pointed  out  by  the  Monomotapans 
(I  think  very  reasonably)  that  the  kind  of  man 
who  will  give  his  services  for  nothing,  even  in  the 
arduous  work  of  imprisoning  his  fellow-citizens, 
will  probably  be  the  best  man  for  the  job,  and 
does  not  need  to  be  allured  to  it  by  the  promise 
of  a  great  salary.  In  this  way  they  obtain  both 
kinds  of  judges,  and,  oddly  enough,  each  kind 
speaks,  acts,  and  lives  much  as  does  the  other. 

I  must  next  describe  the  methods  by  which 
this  interesting  and  sensible  people  secure  the 
ends  of  their  criminal  system. 

When  one  of  their  magistrates  has  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  on  the  whole  he  will  have  a 
fellow-citizen  imprisoned,  that  person  is  handed 


On   Something 

over  to  the  guardianship  of  certain  officials.,  whose 
business  it  is  to  see  that  the  man  does  not  die 
during  the  period  for  which  he  is  entrusted  to 
them.  When  some  one  of  the  numerous  forms 
of  torture  which  they  are  permitted  to  use  has 
the  effect  of  causing  death,  the  official  responsible 
is  reprimanded  and  may  even  be  dismissed.  The 
object  indeed  of  the  whole  system  is  to  reform 
and  amend  the  criminal.  He  is  therefore  for- 
bidden to  speak  or  to  communicate  in  any  way 
with  human  beings,  and  is  segregated  in  a  very 
small  room  devoid  of  all  ornament,  with  the 
exception  of  one  hour  a  day,  during  which  he  is 
compelled  to  walk  round  and  round  a  deep, 
walled  courtyard  designed  for  the  purpose  of 
such  an  exercise.  If  (as  is  often  the  case)  after 
some  years  of  this  treatment  the  criminal  shows 
no  signs  of  mental  or  moral  improvement,  he  is 
released ;  and  if  he  is  a  man  of  property,  lives 
unmolested  on  what  he  has,  and  that  usually  in  a 
quiet  and  retired  way.  But  if  he  is  devoid  of 
property,  the  problem  is  indeed  a  difficult  one, 
for  it  is  the  business  of  the  police  to  forbid  him  to 
work,  and  they  are  rewarded  if  he  is  found  com- 
mitting any  act  which  the  judges  or  the  magis- 
trates are  likely  to  disapprove.  In  this  way  even 
those  who  have  failed  to  effect  reform  in  their 
characters  during  their  first  term  of  imprison- 
ment are  commonly — if  they  are  poor — re-incar- 
92 


The  Odd  People 

cerated  within  a  short  time,  so  that  the  system 
works  precisely  as  it  was  intended  to,  giving  the 
maximum  amount  of  reformation  to  the  worst  and 
the  hardest  characters.  I  should  add  that  the 
Monomotapan  character  is  such  that  in  proportion 
to  wealth  a  man's  virtues  increase,  and  it  is  re- 
markable that  nearly  all  those  who  suffer  the 
species  of  imprisonment  I  have  described  are  of 
the  poorer  classes  of  society. 

Though  they  are  so  reasonable,  and  indeed 
afford  so  excellent  a  model  to  ourselves  in  most 
of  their  social  relations,  the  people  of  Mono- 
mo  tapa  have,  I  confess,  certain  customs  which  I 
have  never  clearly  understood,  and  which  my 
increasing  study  of  them  fails  to  explain  to  me. 

Thus,  in  matters  which,  with  us,  are  thought 
susceptible  of  positive  proof  (such  as  the  taste 
and  quality  of  cooking,  or  the  mental  abilities  of 
a  fellow-citizen)  the  Monomotapans  establish 
their  judgment  in  a  transcendental  or  super- 
rational  manner.  The  cooking  in  a  restaurant 
or  hotel  is  with  them  excellent  in  proportion, 
not  to  the  taste  of  the  viands  subjected  to  it, 
but  to  the  rental  of  the  premises.  And  when  a 
man  desires  the  most  delicious  food  he  does  not 
consider  where  he  has  tasted  such  food  in  the 
past,  but  rather  the  situation  and  probable  rate- 
able value  of  the  eating-house  which  will  provide 
him  with  it.  Nay,  he  is  willing — if  he  under- 
93 


On  Something 

stands  that  that  rateable  value  is  high— to  pay 
far  more  for  the  same  article  than  he  would  in  a 
humbler  hostelry. 

The  same  super-rational  method,,  as  I  have 
called  it,  applies  to  the  Monomotapan  judgment 
of  political  ability ;  for  here  it  is  not  what  a  man 
has  said  or  written,  nor  whether  he  has  proved 
himself  capable  of  foreseeing  certain  events  of 
moment  to  the  State,  it  is  not  these  characters 
that  determine  his  political  career,  but  a  mixture 
of  other  indices,  one  of  which  is  that  his  brothers 
shall  be  younger  than  himself,  another  that  when 
he  speaks  he  shall  strike  the  palm  of  his  open 
left  hand  with  his  clenched  right  hand  in  a 
particular  manner  by  no  means  commonly  or 
easily  acquired ;  another  that  he  shall  not  wear 
at  one  and  the  same  time  a  coat  which  is  bi- 
furcated and  a  hat  of  hemispherical  outline ; 
another  that  he  shall  keep  silence  upon  certain 
types  of  foreigners  who  frequent  the  markets  of 
Monomotapa,  and  shall  even  pretend  that  they 
are  not  foreigners  but  Monomotapan s ;  and  this 
index  of  statesmanship  he  must  preserve  under 
all  circumstances,  even  when  the  foreigners  in 
question  cannot  speak  the  Monomotapan  language. 

Some   years    ago    it    was    required    of   every 

statesman  that  he  should,  for  at  least  so  many 

times  in  any  one  year,  extravagantly  praise  the 

virtues   of    these    foreign    merchants,    and   par- 

94 


The  Odd  People 

ticularly  allude  to  their  intensely  unforeign 
character ;  but  this  custom  has  recently  fallen 
into  abeyance,  and  silence  upon  the  subject  is 
the  most  that  is  demanded. 

A  further  social  habit  of  this  people  which  we 
should  find  very  strange  and  which  I  for  my  part 
think  unaccountable  is  their  habit  of  judging 
the  excellence  of  a  literary  production,  not  by 
the  sense  or  even  the  sound  of  it,  but  by  the  ink 
in  which  it  is  printed  and  the  paper  upon  which 
it  is  impressed.  And  this  applies  not  only  to  their 
letters  but  also  to  their  foreign  information,  and 
on  this  account  they  should  (one  would  imagine) 
obtain  but  a  very  distorted  view  of  the  world. 
For  if  a  good  printer  prints  with  excellent  ink  at 
five  shillings  a  pound,  and  with  beautiful  clear 
type  upon  the  best  linen  paper,  the  statement 
that  the  British  Islands  are  uninhabited,  while 
another  in  bad  ink  and  upon  flimsy  paper  and 
with  worn  type  affirms  that  they  contain  over 
forty  million  souls,  the  first  impression  and  not 
the  second  would  be  conveyed  to  the  Mono- 
motapan  mind.  As  a  fact,  however,  they  are  not 
misinformed,  for  this  singular  frailty  of  theirs 
(as  I  conceive  it  to  be)  is  moderated  by  one  very 
wise  countervailing  mental  habit  of  theirs,  which 
is  to  believe  whatever  they  hear  asserted  more 
than  twenty-six  times,  so  that  even  if  the  asser- 
tion be  conveyed  to  them  in  bad  print  and  upon 
95 


On  Something 

poor  paper,  they  will  believe  it  if  they  read  it 
over  and  over  again  to  the  required  limits  of 
reiterations. 

No  people  in  the  world  are  fonder  of  animals 
than  this  genial  race,  but  here  again  curious 
limits  to  their  affection  are  to  be  discovered.,  for 
while  they  will  tear  to  pieces  some  abandoned 
wretch  who  beats  a  llama  with  a  hazel  twig  for 
its  correction,  they  will  see  nothing  remarkable 
in  the  tearing  to  pieces  of  an  alpaca  goat  by  dogs 
specially  trained  in  that  exercise. 

Generally  speaking,  the  larger  an  animal  is, 
the  warmer  is  the  affection  borne  it  by  these 
people.  Fleas  and  lice  are  crushed  without  pity, 
blackbeetles  with  more  hesitation,  small  birds 
are  spared  entirely,  and  so  on  upwards  until  for 
calves  they  have  a  special  legislation  to  protect 
and  cherish  them.  At  the  other  end  of  the 
scale,  microbes  are  pitilessly  exterminated. 

Divorce  is  not  common  in  Monomotapa.  But 
such  divorces  as  take  place  are  very  rightly 
treated  differently,  according  to  the  wealth  of 
the  persons  involved.  Above  a  certain  scale  of 
wealth  divorce  is  only  granted  after  a  lengthy 
trial  in  a  court  of  justice  ;  but  with  the  poor  it  is 
established  by  the  decree  of  a  magistrate  who 
usually,  shortly  after  pronouncing  his  sentence, 
finds  an  occasion  to  imprison  the  innocent  party. 
Moreover,  the  poor  can  be  divorced  in  this 
96 


The  Odd  People 

manner,,  if  any  magistrate  feels  inclined  to 
exercise  his  power,  while  for  the  divorce  of 
the  rich  set  conditions  are  laid  down. 

I  should  add  that  the  Monomotapans  have  no 
religion ;  but  the  tolerance  of  their  Constitution 
is  nowhere  better  shown  than  in  this  particular,, 
for  though  they  themselves  regard  religion  as 
ridiculous,  they  will  permit  its  exercise  within 
the  State,  and  even  occasionally  give  high  office 
and  emoluments  to  those  who  practise  it. 

We  have,  indeed,  much  to  learn  in  this  matter 
of  religion  from  the  race  whose  habits  I  have 
discovered  and  here  describe.  Nothing,  perhaps, 
has  done  more  to  warp  our  own  story  than  the 
hide-bound  prejudice  that  a  doctrine  could  not 
be  both  false  and  true  at  the  same  time,  and  the 
unreasoning  certitude,  inherited  from  the  bad 
old  days  of  clerical  tyranny,  that  a  thing  either 
was  or  was  not. 

No  such  narrowness  troubles  the  Monomota- 
pan.  He  will  prefer — and  very  wisely  prefer — 
an  opinion  that  renders  him  comfortable  to  one 
that  in  any  way  interferes  with  his  appetites  ; 
and  if  two  such  opinions  contradict  each  other, 
he  will  not  fall  into  a  silly  casuistry  which  would 
attempt  to  reconcile  them  :  he  will  quietly  accept 
both,  and  serve  the  Higher  Purpose  with  a  con- 
tented mind. 

It  is  on  this  account  that  I  have  said  that  the 
7  97 


On  Something 

Monomotapans  regard  religion  as  ridiculous.  For 
true  religion,  indeed  (as  they  phrase  it),  they 
have  the  highest  reverence ;  and  true  religion 
consists  in  following  the  inclinations  of  an  honest 
man,  that  is,  oneself;  but  "religion  in  the  sense 
of  fixed  doctrine,"  as  one  of  their  priests  ex- 
plained to  me,  "is  abhorrent  to  our  free  common- 
wealth." Thus  such  hair-splitting  questions  as 
whether  God  really  exists  or  no,  whether  it  be 
wrong  to  kill  or  to  steal,  whether  we  owe  any 
duties  to  the  State,  and,  if  so,  what  duties,  are 
treated  by  the  honest  Monomotapans  with  the 
contempt  they  deserve:  they  abandon  such  specu- 
lation for  the  worthy  task  of  enjoying,  each  man, 
what  his  fortune  permits  him  to  enjoy. 

But,  as  I  have  said  above,  they  do  not  perse- 
cute the  small  minority  living  in  their  midst  who 
cling  with  the  tenacity  of  all  starved  minds  to 
their  fixed  ideas ;  and  if  a  man  who  professes 
certitude  upon  doctrinal  matters  is  useful  in 
other  ways,  they  are  very  far  from  refusing  his 
services  to  the  State.  I  have  known  more  than 
one,  for  instance,  of  this  old-fashioned  and  bigoted 
lot  who,  when  he  offered  a  sum  of  money  in  order 
to  be  admitted  to  the  Senate  of  Monomotapa, 
found  it  accepted  as  readily  and  cheerfully  as 
though  it  had  been  offered  by  one  of  the  broadest 
principles  and  most  liberal  mind. 

Let  no  one  be  surprised  that  I  have  spoken  of 
98 


The  Odd  People 

their  priests,  for  though  the  Monomotapans 
regard  religion  with  due  contempt,  it  does  not 
follow  that  they  will  take  away  the  livelihood  of 
a  very  honest  class  of  people  who  in  an  older  and 
barbaric  state  of  affairs  were  employed  to  main- 
tain the  structure  of  what  was  then  a  public 
worship.  The  priesthood,  therefore,  is  very  justly 
and  properly  retained  by  the  Monomotapans, 
subject  only  to  a  few  simple  duties  and  to  a 
sacred  intonation  of  voice  very  distressing  to 
those  not  accustomed  to  it.  If  I  am  asked  in 
what  occupation  they  are  employed,  1  answer, 
the  wealthier  of  them  in  such  sports  and  futili- 
ties as  attract  the  wealthy,  and  the  less  wealthy 
in  such  futilities  and  sports  as  the  less  wealthy 
customarily  enjoy.  Nor  is  it  a  rigid  law  among 
them  that  the  sons  of  priests  should  be  priests, 
but  only  the  custom — so  far,  at  least,  as  I  have 
been  able  to  discover. 


99 


Letter  of  Advice  and  Apology  to  a 
Young  Burglar          ^> 

TV/I  Y  DEAR  ORMOND, 

•^  Nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts. 

I  had  imagined  you  knew  me  well  enough — and, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  all  your  mother's  family — 
to  judge  me  better.  Believe  me,  no  conception 
of  blaming  your  profession  entered  my  mind  for  a 
moment.  Whether  there  be  such  a  thing  as 
"property"  in  the  abstract  I  should  leave  it  to 
metaphysicians  to  decide :  in  practical  affairs 
everything  must  be  judged  in  its  own  surround- 
ings. 

It  was  not  upon  any  musty  theological  whimsy 
that  I  wrote  ;  the  definition  of  stealing  or  "  theft " 
— I  care  not  by  what  name  you  call  it — is  not  for 
practical  men  to  discuss.  Nor  was  I  concerned 
with  the  ethical  discussion  of  burglary  (to  give 
the  matter  its  old  legal  and  technical  title) ;  it 
was  lack  of  judgment,  sudden  actions  due  to 
nothing  but  impulse,  and  what  I  think  I  may  call 
"the  speculative  side"  of  a  burglar's  life. 

You  have  not,  as  yet,  any  great  responsibilities. 
No  one  is  dependent  upon  you — you  have  but 


Letter  of  Advice  and  Apology 

yourself  to  provide  for ;  but  you  must  remember 
that  such  responsibilities  will  arrive  in  their 
natural  course,  and  that  if  you  form  habits  of 
rashness  or  obstinacy  now  they  will  cling  to  you 
through  life.  We  are  all  looking  forward  to  a 
certain  event  when  Anne  is  free  again  ;  in  plain 
English,  my  boy,  we  know  your  loyal  heart,  and 
we  shall  bless  the  union ;  but  1  should  feel  easier 
in  my  mind  if  I  saw  you  settled  into  one  definite 
branch  of  the  profession  before  you  undertook 
the  nurture  of  a  family. 

Adventure  tempts  you  because  you  are  brave, 
and  something  of  a  poet  in  you  leads  you  to  un- 
usual scenes  of  action.  Well,  Youth  has  a  right 
to  its  dreams,  but  beware  of  letting  a  dangerous 
Quixotism  spoil  your  splendid  chances. 

Take,  for  example,  your  breaking  into  Mr. 
Cowl's  house.  You  may  say  Mr.  Cowl  was  not  a 
journalist,  but  only  a  reviewer ;  the  distinction  is 
very  thin,  but  let  it  pass.  You  know  and  I  know 
that  the  houses  of  none  in  any  way  connected 
with  the  daily  Press  should  ever  be  approached. 
It  is  plain  common  sense.  The  journalist  comes 
home  at  all  hours  of  the  night.  His  servant  (if 
he  keeps  one)  is  often  up  before  he  is  abed.  Do 
you  think  to  enter  such  houses  unobserved  ? 

Again,  in  one  capacity  or  another,  the  jour- 
nalist is  dealing  with  our  profession  all  day  long. 
Some  he  serves  and  knows  as  masters  ;  others  he 
101 


On  Something 

is  employed  in  denouncing  at  about  forty-two 
shillings  the  ]600  words;  others  again  it  is  his 
business  to  interview  and  to  pacify  or  cajole  in 
the  lobbies  of  the  House — do  you  think  he  would 
not  know  what  you  were  if  he  found  you  in  the 
kitchen  with  a  dark  lantern  ? 

There  is  another  peril — I  mean  that  of  alien- 
ating friends.  Mr.  Cowl  is  an  Imperialist — of  a 
very  unemphatic  type :  he  wears  (as  you  will  say) 
gold  spectacles,  and  has  a  nervous  cough,  but  he 
is  an  Imperialist.  I  never  said  that  it  was  wrong 
or  even  foolish  to  alienate  such  a  man.  I  said 
that  a  great  and  powerful  section  of  opinion 
thought  it  a  breach  of  honour  in  one  of  Ours  to 
do  it.  Do  not  run  away  with  the  first  impression 
my  words  convey.  Believe  me,  I  weigh  them  all. 

There  has  been  so  much  misunderstanding  that 
I  hardly  know  what  to  choose.  Take  those 
watches.  I  did  not  say  that  watches  were  "a 
mere  distraction."  You  have  put  the  words  into 
my  mouth.  What  I  said  was  that  watches, 
especially  watches  at  a  Tariff  Reform  meeting, 
were  not  worth  the  risk.  Of  course  a  hatful  of 
watches,  such  as  your  Uncle  Robert  would  bring 
home  from  fires,  or  better  still,  such  a  load  as 
your  poor  cousin  Charles  obtained  upon  Empire 
Day  last  year,  has  value.  But  how  many  gold 
watches  are  there,  off  the  platform,  at  a  Tariff 
Reform  meeting  ?  And  what  possible  chance 


Letter  of  Advice  and  Apology 

have  you  of  getting  on  the  platform  ?  Now 
church  and  purses,  that  is  another  thing,  but 
your  mid-Devon  adventure  was  simple  folly. 

Who  is  Lord  Darrell  ?  I  never  heard  of  him ! 
For  Heaven's  sake  don't  get  caught  by  a  title. 
Do  you  know  any  of  the  servants  ?  His  butler  or 
his  secretary  ?  The  fellow  who  catalogues  the 
library  is  useful.  Do  recollect  that  lots  of  the 
ornaments  in  those  Mayfair  houses  are  fastened 
to  the  wall.  That  is  where  your  dear  father 
failed  over  the  large  Chinese  jar  in  Park  Street. 
.  .  .  Your  mother  would  never  forgive  me  if  you 
were  to  get  into  another  of  your  boyish  scrapes. 

There  is  another  little  matter,  my  dear  Ormond, 
which  I  wish  you  to  lay  to  heart  very  seriously. 
Now  do  take  an  old  man's  advice  and  do  not  get 
up  upon  your  Quixotic  hobby-horse  the  moment 
you  sniff  what  it  is — for  I  suppose  you  have 
guessed  it  already.  Yes,  it  is  what  you  feared  : 
I  want  to  urge  you  to  follow  your  mother's  ardent 
wish  and  add  commission  business  to  your  other 
work.  I  know  very  well  that  young  men  must 
dream  their  dreams,  but  the  world  is  what  it  is, 
and  after  all  there  is  nothing  so  very  dreadful  in 
the  commission  side  of  our  profession.  You  do 
not  come  into  direct  relation  with  the  collectors 
of  curios  and  church  ornaments :  there  is  always 
an  agent  to  break  the  crudeness  of  the  con- 
nexion. And  it  is  a  certain  and  profitable  source 
103 


On  Something 

of  income  with  none  of  the  risks  attached  to  it  that 
the  older  branches  of  the  profession  unfortunately 
show.  Moreover,  it  affords  excellent  opportuni- 
ties for  foreign  travel,  and  gives  one  a  special 
position  very  difficult  to  define,  but  easily  appre- 
ciable among  one's  colleagues. 

George  Burton  made  to  my  knowledge  three 
thousand  pounds  last  year  in  a  short  season ;  he 
got  this  very  large  commission  without  the  neces- 
sity of  breaking  into  a  single  public-house ;  he 
earned  it  entirely  upon  objects  taken  out  of 
churches  upon  the  Continent,  and  in  only 
three  cases  had  he  to  pick  a  pocket.  It  would 
have  hurt  him  very  much  with  his  knowledge 
and  tastes  to  have  had  to  break  a  stained-glass 
window. 

Do  consider  this,  my  dear  Ormond,  for  your 
mother's  sake.  Don't  think  for  a  moment  that 
I  am  advising  you  to  take  up  any  of  those  forms 
of  work  which  we  both  agree  in  despising,  and 
which  are  quite  unworthy  of  your  traditions,  as 
for  instance  stealing  pictures  on  commission  out 
of  the  houses  of  dealers  and  then  turning  detec- 
tive to  recover  them  again.  It  is  much  too  easy 
work  for  a  man  of  your  talents,  much  too  ill-paid, 
and  much  too  dangerous.  It  is  all  very  well  for 
the  picture  dealer  to  leave  the  door  open,  but 
what  if  the  policeman  is  not  in  the  know  ?  No, 
you  will  always  find  me  on  your  side  in  your 
104 


Letter  of  Advice  and  Apology 

steady  refusal  to  have  anything  to  do  with  this 
kind  of  business. 

Ormond,  my  dear  lad,  bear  me  no  ill-will.  It 
is  true  of  every  profession,  of  the  Bar  and  of  the 
City,  of  homicide,  medicine,  the  Services,  even 
Politics — everything,  that  success  only  comes 
slowly,  and  that  the  experience  of  older  men  is 
the  key  to  it. 

To-morrow  is  Ascension  Day,  and  I  am  at 
leisure.  Come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  Colonial 
Club  at  eight  for  eight-fifteen.  I  will  show  you 
a  magnificent  littla  tanagra  I  picked  up  yester- 
day, and  we  will  talk  about  the  new  prospectus. 

God  bless  you  !     (Dress.) 

Your  affectionate  Uncle 


The    Monkey    Question :    An    Appeal    to 
Common  Sense          ^>       *o       *^x       ^> 


A 


PRIVILEGED  body  slips  so  easily  into  re 
Carding  its  privileges  as  common  rights 
that  I  fear  the  plea  which  the  SIMIAN  LEAGUE 
repeats  in  this  pamphlet  will  still  sound  strange 
in  the  ears  of  many,  though  the  work  of  the 
League  has  been  increasingly  successful  and  has 
reached  yearly  a  wider  circle  of  the  educated 
public  since  its  foundation  by  Lady  Wayne  in  1902. 
We  desire  to  place  before  our  fellow-citizens  the 
claims  of  Monkeys,  and  we  hope  once  more  that 
nothing  we  say  may  seem  extreme  or  violent,  for 
we  know  full  well  what  poor  weapons  violence 
and  passion  are  in  the  debate  of  a  practical 
political  matter. 

Perhaps  it  is  best  to  begin  by  pointing  out  how 
rarely  even  the  best  of  us  pause  in  our  fevered 
race  for  wealth  to  consider  the  disabilities  of  any 
of  our  fellow-creatures :  when  that  truth  is  grasped 
it  will  be  easier  to  plead  the  special  cause  of  the 
Simian. 

Were  English  men  and  women  to  realize  the 
wrongs  of  the  Race,  or  at  any  rate  the  illogical 
106 


The  Monkey  Question 

and  therefore  unjust  position  in  which  we  have 
placed  them  ;  were  the  just  and  thoughtful  men, 
the  refined  and  golden-hearted  ladies  who  are 
ready  in  this  country  to  support  every  good  cause 
when  it  is  properly  presented  ;  were  they  to  realize 
the  disabilities  of  the  Monkey,  I  do  not  say  as 
vividly  they  realize  the  tragedies  and  misfortunes 
of  London  life,  they  could  not,  I  think,  avoid  an 
ill-ease,  a  pricking  of  conscience,  which  would 
lead  at  last  to  some  hearty  and  English  effort  for 
the  relief  of  the  cousin  and  forerunner  of  man. 

The  attitude  adopted  towards  Monkeys  by  the 
mass  of  those  who,  after  all,  live  in  the  same 
world,  and  have  much  the  same  appetites  and 
necessities  and  sufferings  as  they,  is  an  attitude 
I  am  persuaded,  not  of  heartlessness,  but  of 
ignorance.  To  disturb  that  ignorance,  and  in 
some  to  awake  a  consciousness  which,  perhaps, 
they  fear,  is  not  a  grateful  task,  but  it  is  our  duty, 
and  we  will  pursue  it. 

Let  the  reader  consider  for  one  moment  the 
aspect  not  only  of  formal  law  but  of  the  whole 
community,  and  of  what  is  called  "  public 
opinion  "  towards  this  section  of  sentient  beings. 

As  things  now  are — aye !  and  have  been  for 
centuries  in  this  green  England  of  ours — a 
Monkey  may  not  marry  ;  he  may  not  own  land  ; 
he  may  not  fill  any  salaried  post  under  the  Crown. 
The  Papists  themselves  are  debarred  from  no 
107 


On  Something 

honour  (outside  Ireland)  save  the  Lord  Chancellor- 
ship. Monkeys,  who  are  responsible  for  no  per- 
secutions in  the  past,  whose  religion  presents  no 
insult  or  outrage  to  our  common  reason,  and  who 
differ  little  from  ourselves  in  their  general  prac- 
tice of  life  and  thought,  are  debarred  from  all! 

A  Monkey  may  not  be  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment, a  Civil  Servant,  an  officer  in  either  Service, 
no,  not  even  in  the  Territorial  Army.  It  is  doubt- 
ful whether  he  may  hold  a  commission  for  the 
peace.  True,  there  is  no  statute  upon  the  sub- 
ject, and  the  rural  magistracy  is  perhaps  the 
freest  and  most  open  of  all  our  offices,  and  the 
least  restricted  by  artificial  barriers  of  examination 
or  test ;  nevertheless,  it  is  the  considered  opinion 
of  the  best  legal  authorities  that  no  Monkey 
could  sit  upon  the  Bench,  and  in  any  case  the 
discussion  is  purely  academic,  for  it  is  difficult  to 
believe  that  any  Lord-Lieutenant,  under  the  ridi- 
culous anachronism  of  our  present  Constitution, 
would  nominate  a  Monkey  to  such  a  position — 
unless  (which  is  by  law  impossible)  he  should  be 
heir  to  an  owner  of  an  estate  in  land. 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  mention  of  unpaid  posts 
recalls  the  damning  truth  that  all  honorary  posi- 
tions in  the  Diplomatic  Service,  including  even 
the  purely  formal  stage  in  the  Foreign  Office,  are 
closed  to  the  Monkey  ;  the  very  Court  sinecures, 
which  admittedly  require  no  talents,  are  denied 
108 


The  Monkey  Question 

to  our  Simian  fellow-creatures,  if  not  by  law  at 
least  by  custom  and  in  practice. 

There  have  been  employed  by  the  League  in 
the  British  Museum  the  services  of  two  ladies 
who  feel  most  keenly  upon  this  subject.  They 
are  (to  the  honour  of  their  sex)  as  amply  quali- 
fied as  any  person  in  this  kingdom  for  the  task 
which  they  have  undertaken,  and  they  report  to 
the  Executive  Commission  after  two  months  of 
minute  research  that  (with  one  doubtful  exception 
occurring  during  the  reign  of  Her  late  Majesty) 
no  Monkey  has  held  any  position  whatever  at 
Court. 

All  judicial  positions  are  equally  inaccessible  to 
them ;  for  though,  perhaps,  in  theory  a  Monkey 
could  be  promoted  to  the  Bench  if  he  had  served 
his  party  sufficiently  long  and  faithfully  in  the 
House  of  Commons  (to  which  body  he  is  admis- 
sible— at  least  I  can  find  no  rule  or  custom,  let 
alone  a  statute,  against  it),  yet  he  is  cut  off  from 
such  an  ambition  at  the  very  outset  by  his  in- 
admissibility  to  a  legal  career.  The  Inns  of 
Court  are  monopolist,  and,  like  all  monopolists, 
hopelessly  conservative.  They  have  admitted 
first  one  class  and  then  another— though  re- 
luctantly— to  their  privileges,  but  it  will  be 
twenty  or  thirty  years  at  least  before  they  will 
give  way  in  the  matter  of  Monkeys.  To  be 
a  physician,  a  solicitor,  an  engineer,  or  a  Com- 
109 


On  Something 

missioner  for  Oaths  is  denied  them  as  effectually 
as  though  they  did  not  exist.  Indeed,  no  occupa- 
tion is  left  them  save  that  of  manual  labour,  and 
on  this  I  would  say  a  word.  It  is  fashionable  to 
jeer  at  the  Monkey's  disinclination  to  sustained 
physical  effort  and  to  concentrated  toil ;  but  it  is 
remarkable  that  those  who  affect  such  a  contempt 
for  the  Monkey's  powers  are  the  first  to  deny 
him  access  to  the  liberal  professions  in  which 
they  know  (though  they  dare  not  confess  it)  he 
would  be  a  serious  rival  to  the  European.  As 
it  is,  in  the  few  places  open  to  Monkeys — the 
somewhat  parasitical  domestic  occupation  of 
"  companions "  and  the  more  manly,  but  still 
humiliating,  task  of  acting  as  assistants  to 
organ-grinders,  the  Monkey  has  won  universal 
if  grudging  praise. 

Latterly,  since  progress  cannot  be  indefinitely 
delayed,  the  Monkey  has  indeed  advanced  by  one 
poor  step  towards  the  civic  equality  which  is  his 
right,  and  has  appeared  as  an  actor  upon  the 
boards  of  our  music-halls.  It  should  surely  be  a 
sufficient  rebuke  for  those  who  continue  to  sneer 
at  the  Simian  League  and  such  devoted  pioneers 
as  Miss  Greeley  and  Lady  Wayne  that  the  Monkey 
has  been  honourably  admitted  and  has  done  first- 
rate  work  in  a  profession  which  His  late  Gracious 
Majesty  and  His  late  Majesty's  late  revered 
mother,  Queen  Victoria,  have  seen  fit  to  honour 


The  Monkey  Question 

by  the  bestowal  of  knighthoods,  and  in  one 
case  (where  the  recipient  was  childless)  of  a 
baronetcy. 

The  disabilities  I  have  enumerated  are  by  no 
means  exhaustive.  A  Monkey  may  not  sign  or 
deliver  a  deed  ;  he  may  not  serve  on  a  jury  ;  he 
may  be  ill-treated,  forsooth,  and  even  killed  by 
some  cruel  master,  and  the  law  will  refuse  to  pro- 
tect him  or  to  punish  his  oppressor.  He  may  be 
subjected  to  all  the  by-laws  of  a  tyrannical  or 
fanatical  administration,  but  in  preventing  such 
abuses  he  has  no  voice.  He  may  not  enter  our 
older  Universities,  at  least  as  the  member  of  a 
college ;  that  is,  he  can  only  take  a  degree  at 
Oxford  or  Cambridge  under  the  implied  and 
wholly  unmerited  stigma  applying  to  the  non- 
collegiate  student.  And  these  iniquities  apply 
not  only  to  the  great  anthropoids  whose  strength 
and  grossness  we  might  legitimately  fear,  but  to 
the  most  delicately  organized  types — to  the  Bar- 
bary  Ape,  the  Lemur,  and  the  Ring-tailed  Baboon. 
Finally — and  this  is  the  worst  feature  in  the  whole 
matter — a  Monkey,  by  a  legal  fiction  at  least  as 
old  as  the  fourteenth  century,  is  not  a  person  in 
the  eye  of  the  law. 

We  call  England  a  free  country,  yet  at  the 
present  day  and  as  you  read  these  lines,  any 
Monkey  found  at  large  may  be  summarily  arrested. 
He  has  no  remedy ;  no  action  for  assault  will  lie. 


On  Something 

He  is  not  even  allowed  to  call  witnesses  in  his 
own  defence,  or  to  establish  an  alibi. 

It  may  be  pleaded  that  these  disabilities  attach 
also  to  the  Irish,  but  we  must  remember  that  the 
Irish  are  allowed  a  certain  though  modified 
freedom  of  the  Press,  and  have  extended  to  them 
the  incalculable  advantage  of  sending  representa- 
tives to  Westminster.  The  Monkey  has  no  such 
remedies.  He  may  be  incarcerated,  nay  chained, 
yet  he  cannot  sue  out  a  writ  for  habeas  corpus 
any  more  than  can  a  British  subject  in  time  of 
war,  and  worst  of  all,  through  the  connivance  or 
impotence  of  the  police,  cases  have  been  brought 
forward  and  approved  in  which  Monkeys  have 
been  openly  bought  and  sold  ! 

We  boast  our  sense  of  delicacy,  and  perhaps 
rightly,  in  view  of  our  superiority  over  other 
nations  in  this  particular ;  yet  we  permit  the 
Monkey  to  exhibit  revolting  nakedness,  and  we 
hardly  heed  the  omission  !  It  is  true  that  some 
Monkeys  are  covered  from  time  to  time  with  little 
blue  coats.  A  cap  is  occasionally  disdainfully 
permitted  them,  and  not  infrequently  they  are 
permitted  a  pair  of  leather  breeches,  through  a 
hole  in  which  the  tail  is  permitted  to  protrude  ; 
but  no  reasonable  man  will  deny  that  these  gar- 
ments are  regarded  in  the  light  of  mere  orna- 
ments, and  rarely  fulfil  those  functions  which 
every  decent  Englishman  requires  of  clothing. 
112 


The  Monkey  Question 

And  now  we  come  to  the  most  important  section 
of  our  appeal.  What  can  be  done  ? 

We  are  a  kindly  people  and  we  are  a  just 
people,  but  we  are  also  a  very  conservative 
people.  The  fate  of  all  pioneers  besets  those 
who  attempt  to  move  in  this  matter.  They  are 
jeered  at,  or,  what  is  worse,  neglected.  One  of 
the  most  prominent  of  the  League's  workers  has 
been  certified  a  lunatic  by  an  authority  whose 
bitter  prejudice  is  well  known,  and  against  whom 
we  have  as  yet  had  no  grant  of  a  mandamus,  and 
we  have  all  noticed  the  quiet  contempt,  the  sort 
of  organized  boycott  or  conspiracy  of  silence  with 
which  a  company  at  dinner  will  receive  the  sub- 
ject when  it  is  brought  forward. 

There  are  also  to  be  met  the  violent  prejudices 
with  which  the  mass  of  the  population  is  still 
filled  in  this  regard.  These  prejudices  are,  of 
course,  more  common  among  the  uneducated 
poor  than  in  the  upper  classes,  who  in  various 
relations  come  more  often  in  contact  with  Mon- 
keys, and  who  also  have  a  wider  and  more 
tolerant,  because  a  better  cultivated,  spirit.  But 
the  prejudice  is  discernible  in  every  class  of 
society,  even  in  the  very  highest.  We  have  also 
arrayed  against  us  in  our  crusade  for  right  and 
justice  the  dying  but  still  formidable  power  of 
clericalism.  Society  is  but  half  emancipated  from 
its  medieval  trammels,  and  the  priest,  that 
8  113 


On  Something 

Eternal  Enemy  of  Liberty,  can  still  put   in   his 
evil  word  against  the  rights  of  the  Simian. 

Let  us  not  despair !  We  can  hope  for  nothing, 
it  is  true,  until  we  have  effected  a  profound 
change  in  public  opinion,  and  that  change  cannot 
be  effected  by  laws.  It  can  only  be  brought 
about  by  a  slow  and  almost  imperceptible  effort, 
unsleeping,  tireless,  and  convinced :  something 
of  the  same  sort  as  has  destroyed  the  power  of 
militarism  upon  the  Continent  of  Europe  ;  some- 
thing of  the  same  sort  as  has  scotched  landlordism 
at  home  ;  something  of  the  same  sort  as  has  freed 
the  unhappy  natives  of  the  Congo  from  the  mis- 
rule of  depraved  foreigners  ;  something  of  the 
same  sort  as  has  produced  the  great  wave  in 
favour  of  temperance  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  this  land. 

We  must  not  attempt  extremes  or  demand  full 
justice  to  the  exclusion  of  excellent  half-measures. 
No  one  condemns  more  strongly  than  do  we  the 
militant  pro-Simians  who  have  twice  assaulted  and 
once  blinded  for  life  a  keeper  in  the  Zoological 
Gardens.  We  do  not  even  approve  of  those 
ardent  but  in  our  opinion  misguided  spirits  of 
the  Simian  Freedom  Society  who  publish  side  by 
side  the  photographs  of  Pongo  the  learned  Ape 
from  the  Gaboons  and  that  of  a  certain  Cabinet 
Minister,  accompanied  by  the  legend  "  Which  is 
Which  ?  "  It  is  not  by  actions  of  this  kind  that 
114 


The  Monkey  Question 

we  shall  win  the  good  fight ;  but  rather  by  a 
perseverance  in  reason  combined  with  courtesy 
shall  we  attain  our  end,  until  at  long  last  our 
Brother  shall  be  free  !  As  for  the  excellent  but 
somewhat  provincial  reactionaries  who  still  object 
to  us  that  the  Monkey  differs  fundamentally  from 
the  human  race ;  that  he  is  not  possessed  of 
human  speech,  and  so  forth,  we  can  afford  to 
smile  at  their  waning  authority.  Modern  science 
has  sufficiently  dealt  with  them  ;  and  if  any  one 
bring  out  against  the  Monkey  the  obscurantist  in- 
sult that  His  Hide  is  Covered  with  Hair,  we  can  at 
once  point  to  innumerable  human  beings,  fully 
recognized  and  endowed  with  civic  rights,  who, 
were  they  carefully  examined,  would  prove  in  no 
better  case.  As  to  speech,  the  Monkey  com- 
municates in  his  own  way  as  well  or  better  than 
do  we,  and  for  that  matter,  if  speech  is  to  be  the 
criterion,  are  we  to  deny  civic  rights  to  the 
Dumb? 

We  have  it  upon  the  authority  of  all  our 
greatest  scientific  men,  that  there  is  no  sub- 
stantial difference  between  the  Ape  and  Man. 
One  of  the  greatest  has  said  that  between  him- 
self and  his  poorer  fellow-citizens  there  was 
a  wider  difference  than  that  which  separated 
them  from  the  Monkey.  Hackel  has  testified 
that  while  there  is  a  boundary,  there  is  no  gulf 
between  the  corps  of  professors  to  which  he 
"5 


On  Something 

belongs  and  the  Chimpanzee.  The  Gorilla  is 
universally  accepted,  and  if  we  have  won  the 
battle  for  the  Gorilla,,  the  rest  will  follow. 

Tolstoy  is  with  us,  Webb  is  with  us,  Gorky  is 
with  us,  Zola  and  Ferrer  were  with  us  and 
fight  for  us  from  their  graves.  The  whole 
current  of  modern  thought  is  with  us.  WE 
CANNOT  FAIL! 

Questions  submitted  at  the  last  Election  by  the 
Simian  League 

1.  Are  you  in  favour  of  removing  the  present 
disabilities  of  Monkeys  ? 

2.  Are  you  in  favour  of  a  short  Statute  which 
should  put  adult  Monkeys  upon  the  same  footing 
as  other  subjects  of  His  Majesty  as  from  the  1st  of 
January,    1912?      And    would  you,   if   necessary, 
vote  against  your  party  in  favour  of  such  a  measure  ? 

3.  Are  you  in  favour  of  the  inclusion  of  Monkeys 
under  the  Wild  Birds  Act  ? 

(A  plain  reply  "Yes"  or  "No"  was  to  be  written 
by  the  candidate  under  each  of  these  questions 
and  forwarded  to  the  Secretary,  Mr.  Consul, 
73  Purbeck  Street,  W.,  before  the  14th  January, 
1910.  No  replies  received  after  that  date  were 
admitted.  The  Simian  League,  which  has  agents 
in  every  constituency,  acted  according  to  the  re  plies 
received,  and  treated  the  lack  of  reply  as  a  negative. 
Of  1375  circulars  sent,  309  remained  unanswered, 
116 


The  Monkey  Question 

264  were  answered  in  the  negative,  201  gave  a 
qualified  affirmative,  all  the  rest  (no  less  than  799) 
a  clear  and,  in  some  cases,  an  enthusiastic  adherence 
to  our  principles.  It  is  a  sufficient  proof  of  the 
power  of  the  League  and  the  growth  of  the 
cause  of  justice  that  in  these  799  no  less  than 
515  are  members  of  the  present  House  of 
Commons. 


117 


The  Empire  Builder 

"\  1  7"E  possess  in  this  country  a  breed  of  men  in 
whom  we  feel  a  pride  so  loyal,  so  strong,  and 
so  frank  that  were  I  to  give  further  expression  to  it 
here  I  should  justly  be  accused  of  insisting  upon 
a  hackneyed  theme.  These  are  the  Empire 
Builders,  the  Men  Efficient,  the  agents  whom 
we  cannot  but  feel — however  reluctantly  we 
admit  it — to  be  less  strictly  bound  by  the  common 
laws  of  life  than  are  we  lesser  ones. 

But  there  is  something  about  these  men  not 
hackneyed  as  a  theme,  which  is  their  youth. 
By  what  process  is  the  great  mind  developed  ? 
Of  what  sort  is  the  Empire  Builder  when  he  is 
young  ? 

The  fellow  commonly  rises  from  below  :  What 
was  his  experience  there  below  ?  In  what  school 
was  he  trained  ?  What  accident  of  fortune,  how 
met,  or  how  surmounted,  or  how  used,  produced  at 
last  the  Man  who  Can  ?  In  that  inquiry  there  is 
food  for  very  deep  reflection.  It  is  here  that  our 
Masters,  whose  general  motives  are  so  open  and 
so  plain,  touch  upon  mystery.  That  secret  power 
of  determining  nourishment  which  is  at  the  base 
of  all  organic  life  has  in  its  own  silent  way  built 
118 


The  Empire  Builder 

up  the  boyhood  and  the  adolescence  which  we 
only  know  in  their  maturity. 

I  will  not  pretend  to  a  full  knowledge  of  that 
strange  education  of  the  mind  which  has  pro- 
duced so  many  similar  men  for  the  advancement 
of  the  race,  but  I  can  point  to  one  example  which 
lately  came  straight  across  my  vision — an  accident, 
an  illumination,  a  revealing  flash  of  how  our  time 
breeds  the  Great  Type.  I  was  acquainted  for 
some  hours  with  the  actions  of  a  youth  of  whose 
very  name  I  am  ignorant,  but  whose  face  I  am 
very  certain  will  reappear  twenty  years  hence  in 
a  setting  of  glory,  recognized  as  yet  one  other  of 
those  superb  spirits  who  will  do  all  for  England. 

The  occasion  was  a  pageant — no  matter  what 
pageant — a  great  public  pageant  which  passed 
through  the  Strand,  and  was  to  be  witnessed  by 
hundreds  of  thousands.  Let  us  call  it  "The 
Function." 

Well,  I  was  walking  down  the  Strand  three 
days  before  this  Function  was  to  take  place,  when 
when  I  saw  in  an  empty  shop  window  about  twenty- 
five  wooden  chairs,  arranged  in  tiers  one  above 
the  other  upon  a  sloping  platform,  and  lettered 
from  A  to  Y.  In  the  window  was  a  large  notice, 
very  clearly  printed,  and  it  was  to  this  effect : 

Why    pay    fancy   prices    which    must 

inevitably  fall   before  the   Function? 

Seats  in  this  window,  commanding   a 

full  view  of  the  procession,  5s. 

119 


On  Something 

At  a  little  desk  in  the  gangway  by  which  the 
chairs  were  approached  sat  a  dark,  pale  child — I 
can  call  him  by  no  other  name,  so  frail  and  young 
did  he  seem — and  the  delicacy  of  his  complexion 
led  me  to  wonder  perhaps  whether  he  was  not 
one  of  those  whom  the  climate  of  England  strikes 
with  consumption,  and  who,  in  the  mysterious 
providence  of  our  race,  wander  abroad  in  search 
of  health  and  find  a  Realm.  His  alertness,  how- 
ever, and  the  brilliance  of  his  eye ;  his  winning, 
almost  obsequious  address,  and  the  hooked  clutch 
of  his  gestures  betrayed  an  energy  that  no 
physical  weakness  could  conquer.  He  invited 
me  to  enter,  and  begged  me  to  purchase  a  seat. 

I  had  no  need  of  one,  for  I  had  made  arrange- 
ments to  spend  the  Great  Day  itself  and  the 
next  at  a  small  hotel  in  the  extreme  north  of 
Sutherlandshire,  but  I  was  arrested  by  the  evi- 
dent mental  power  of  my  new  acquaintance,  and 
I  wasted  five  shillings  in  buying  the  chair 
marked  D. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  I  could  pur- 
chase it,  so  eager  was  he  that  I  should  have  the 
best  place  ;  "seeing,"  said  he,  "that  they  are  all 
one  price,  and  that  you  may  as  well  benefit  by 
being  an  early  bird."  I  noted  the  strict  recti- 
tude which,  for  all  that  men  ignorant  of  modern 
commerce  may  say,  is.  at  the  basis  of  commercial 
success. 


120 


The  Empire  Builder 

Something  so  attracted  me  in  the  whole 
business  that  I  was  weak  enough  to  take  a 
chair  in  a  tea-shop  opposite  and  watch  all  day 
the  actions  of  the  Child  of  Fate. 

In  less  than  an  hour  twenty  different  people, 
mainly  gentlefolk,  had  come  in  and  bought 
places  at  the  sensible  price  at  which  he  offered 
them.  To  each  of  them  he  gave  a  ticket  cor- 
responding to  the  number  of  the  chair.  He 
was  courteous  to  all,  and  even  expansive.  He 
explained  the  advantage  of  each  particular  seat. 

So  far  so  good ;  but,  what  was  more  astonish- 
ing, in  the  second  hour  another  twenty  came  and 
appeared  to  purchase ;  in  the  third  (which  was 
the  busiest  time  of  the  day)  some  forty,  first  and 
last,  must  have  done  business  with  the  Favourite 
of  Fortune.  I  pondered  upon  these  things  very 
deeply,  and  went  home. 

Next  morning  the  attraction  which  the  place 
had  for  me  drew  me  as  with  a  magnet,  and  I 
went,  somewhat  stealthily  I  fear,  to  the  same 
tea-shop  and  noticed  with  the  greatest  astonish- 
ment that  the  chairs  were  now  not  lettered,  but 
numbered,  and  that  the  boy  was  sitting  at  his 
little  desk  with  a  series  of  white  cards  bearing 
the  figures  from  one  to  twenty-five.  It  was  very 
early — not  ten  o'clock — but  the  Child  was  as 
spruce  and  neat  as  he  had  been  in  the  afternoon 
of  the  day  before.  He  bore  already  that  mark 
121 


On  Something 

of  energy  combined  with  neatness  which  is  the 
stamp  of  success. 

I  crossed  the  road  and  entered.  He  recog- 
nized me  at  once  (their  memory  for  faces  is 
wonderful),  and  said  cheerfully  : 

"Your  D  corresponds  to  the  number  4." 

I  thanked  him  very  much,  and  asked  him  why 
he  had  changed  his  system  of  notation.  He  told 
me  it  was  because  several  people  had  explained 
to  him  that  they  remembered  figures  more  easily 
than  letters.  We  then  talked  to  each  other,  agree- 
ing upon  the  maxims  of  simplicity  and  directness 
which  are  at  the  root  of  all  mercantile  stability. 
He  told  me  he  required  cash  from  all  who  bought 
his  chairs ;  that  there  was  no  agreement,  no 
insurance — no  "frills,"  as  he  wittily  called  them. 

"It  is  as  simple,"  he  said,  "as  buying  a  pound 
of  tea.  I  am  satisfied,  and  they  are  satisfied. 
As  for  the  risk,  it  is  covered  by  the  low  price, 
and  if  you  ask  me  how  I  can  let  them  at  so  low 
a  price,  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  because  I  have 
found  exactly  what  was  needed  and  have  added 
nothing  more.  Moreover,  I  did  not  buy  the 
chairs,  but  hired  them.  ' 

I  went  back  to  my  tea-shop  with  head  bent, 
murmuring  to  myself  those  memorable  lines  : 

We  founded  many  a  mighty  State, 
Pray  God  that  we  may  never  fail 
From  craven  fears  of  being  great 

(or  words  to  that  effect). 

122 


The  Empire  Builder 

That  day  no  less  than  153  people  did  business 
with  the  Youth. 

Next  day  I  found  among  my  morning  letters  a 
note  from  a  politician  of  my  acquaintance,  telling 
me  that  the  Function  was  postponed — indefinitely. 
I  wasted  not  a  moment.  I  went  at  once  to  my 
post  of  observation,  my  tea-shop,  and  I  proceeded 
to  watch  the  Leader. 

There  was  as  yet  no  knowledge  of  the  calamity 
in  London. 

My  friend  seemed  to  have  noticed  me ;  at  any 
rate  a  new  and  somewhat  anxious  look  was 
apparent  on  his  face.  With  a  firm  and  decided 
step  I  crossed  the  road  to  greet  him,  and  when 
he  saw  me  he  was  all  at  his  ease.  He  told  me 
that  my  seat  had  been  especially  asked  for,  and 
that  a  higher  price  had  been  offered ;  but  a  bar- 
gain, he  said,  was  a  bargain,  and  so  we  fell  to 
chatting.  When  I  mentioned,  among  other  sub- 
jects, the  very  great  success  of  his  enterprise,  he 
gave  a  slight  start,  which  did  honour  to  his 
heart ;  but  he  was  of  too  stern  a  mould  to  give 
way.  He  was  of  the  temper  of  the  Pioneers. 

I  assured  him  at  once  that  it  was  very  far 
from  my  intention  to  reproach  him  for  the  talents 
which  he  had  used  with  so  much  ability  and 
energy.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  even  if  I 
desired  to  injure  him,  which  I  did  not,  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me,  or  for  any  one,  to  trace 
123 


On  Something 

more   than   half  a   dozen,   at  the    most,  of  his 
numerous  clients. 

It  is  frequently  the  case  that  men  of  small 
business  capacity  will  perceive  some  important 
element  in  a  commercial  problem  which  escapes 
the  eyes  of  Genius ;  and  I  could  see  that  this 
simple  observation  of  mine  had  relieved  him 
almost  to  tears. 

Before  he  could  thank  me,  a  newsboy  ap- 
peared with  a  very  large  placard,  upon  which 
was  written 

"  POSTPONED." 

In  a  moment  his  mind  grasped  the  whole 
meaning  of  that  word ;  but  he  went  out  with  a 
steady  step,  and  paid  the  sixpence  which  the 
newsboy  demanded.  Even  in  that  uncomplain- 
ing action,  the  uncomplaining  forfeiture  of  the 
comparatively  large  sum  which  necessity  de- 
manded, one  could  detect  the  financial  grip 
which  is  the  true  arbiter  of  the  fates  of  nations. 
He  needed  the  paper :  he  did  not  haggle  about 
the  price.  He  first  mastered  the  exact  words  of 
the  announcement,  and  then,  looking  up  at  me 
with  a  face  of  paper,  he  said  : 

"  It  is  not  only  postponed,  but  all  this  prepara- 
tion is  thrown  away." 

I  have  said  that  I  have  no  commercial  apti- 
tude ;  I  admit  that  I  was  puzzled. 
124 


The  Empire  Builder 

"Surely,"  said  I,  "this  is  exactly  what  you 
needed  ? " 

He  shook  his  head,  still  restraining,  by  a 
powerful  effort,  the  natural  expression  of  his 
grief,  and  showed  me,  for  all  his  answer,  a  rail 
way  ticket  to  Boulogne  which  he  had  purchased, 
and  which  was  available  for  the  night  boat  on 
the  eve  of  the  Function.  I  then  understood  what 
he  meant  when  he  said  that  all  his  preparations 
had  been  thrown  away. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  did  right  or  wrong — 
I  felt  myself  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  blind 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  superior  power 
which  governs  the  destinies  of  a  people. 

"  How  much  did  the  ticket  cost  ?  "  said  I. 

"Thirty  shillings,"  said  he. 

I  pulled  out  a  sovereign  and  a  half-sovereign 
from  my  pocket,  and  said  : 

"  Here  is  the  money.  I  have  leisure,  and  I 
would  as  soon  go  to  Boulogne  as  to  Sutherland- 
shire." 

He  did  not  thank  me  effusively,  as  might  one 
of  the  more  excitable  and  less  efficient  races  ;  but 
he  grasped  my  hand  and  blessed  me  silently.  I 
then  left  him. 

In  the  steamer  to  Boulogne,  as  I  was  musing 
over  this  strange  adventure,  a  sturdy  Anglo-Saxon 
man,  a  true  son  of  Drake  or  Raleigh,  came  up 
125 


On  Something 

and  asked  me  for  my  ticket.  As  I  gave  it  him 
my  eye  fell  idly  upon  the  price  of  the  ticket.  It 
was  twenty-five  shillings — but  I  had  saved  a 
directing  and  creative  mind. 

If  he  should  come  across  these  lines  he  will 
remember  me.  He  is  probably  in  the  House  of 
Commons  by  now.  Perhaps  he  has  bought  his 
peerage.  Wherever  he  is  I  hope  he  will  remem- 
ber me. 


126 


Caedwalla 

/'""'AEDWALLA,  a  prince  out  of  Wales  (though 
^^  some  deny  it),  wandered  in  the  Andredsweald. 
He  was  nineteen  years  of  age  and  his  heart  was 
full  of  anger  for  wrong  that  had  been  done  him 
by  men  of  his  own  blood.  For  he  was  rightfully 
heir  to  the  throne  of  the  kingdom  of  Sussex,  but 
he  was  kept  from  it  by  the  injustice  of  men. 

A  retinue  went  with  him  of  that  sort  which 
will  always  follow  adventure  and  exile.  These, 
the  rich  of  the  seacoast  and  of  the  Gwent  called 
broken  men ;  but  they  loved  their  Lord.  So  he 
went  hunting,  feeding  upon  what  he  slew,  and  pi-o- 
ceeding  from  steading  to  steading  in  the  sparse 
woods  of  Andred  where  is  sometimes  an  open 
heath,  and  sometimes  a  mile  of  oak,  and  often  a 
clay  swamp,  and,  seen  from  little  lifted  knolls  of 
sand  where  the  broom  grows  and  the  gorse,  the 
Downs  to  the  south  like  a  wall. 

As  he  so  wandered  upon  one  day,  he  came 
upon  another  man  of  a  very  different  fashion,  for 
Caedwalla  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
Cross  of  Christ,  nor  with  the  customs  of  the 
towns,  nor  with  the  talk  of  foreign  men.  But 
127 


On  Something 

this  man  was  a  bishop  wandering,  and  his  name 
was  Wilfrid.  He  also  had  his  little  retinue,  and, 
by  an  accident  of  his  office  or  of  his  exile,  he  had 
proceeded  to  a  steading  in  the  heaths  and  woods 
of  the  Weald  where  also  was  Caedwalla :  so  they 
met.  The  pride  and  the  bearing  of  Wilfrid, 
seeing  that  he  was  of  a  Roman  town  and  an 
officer  of  the  State,,  and  a  bishop  to  boot,  nay,  a 
bishop  above  bishops,  was  not  the  pride  Caedwalla 
loved,  and  the  young  man  bore  himself  with 
another  sort  of  pride,  which  was  that  of  the 
mountains  and  of  pagan  men.  Nevertheless 
Wilfrid  put  before  him,  with  Roman  rhetoric 
and  with  uplifted  hands,  the  story  of  our  Lord, 
and  Caedwalla,,  keeping  his  face  set  during  all 
that  recital,  could  not  forbid  this  story  to  sink 
into  the  depths  of  his  heart,  where  for  many 
years  it  remained,  and  did  no  more  than  remain. 
The  kingdom  of  Sussex,  cultivated  by  men 
of  various  kinds,  received  Wilfrid  the  Bishop 
wherever  he  went.  He  did  many  things  that  do 
not  here  concern  me,  and  his  chief  work  was  to 
make  the  rich  towns  of  the  sea  plain  and  of 
Chichester  and  of  Lewes  and  of  Arundel,  and  of 
the  steadings  of  the  Weald,  and  of  the  wealden 
markets  also,  Christian  men ;  for  he  showed  them 
that  it  was  a  mean  thing  to  go  about  in  a  hairy 
way  like  pagans,  unacquainted  with  letters,  and 
of  imperfect  ability  in  the  making  of  raiment  or 
128 


Caedwalla 

the  getting  of  victuals.  Indeed,  as  I  have 
written  in  another  place,  it  was  St.  Wilfrid  who 
taught  the  King  of  Sussex  and  his  men  how  to 
catch  fish  in  nets.  They  revered  him  every- 
where, and  when  they  had  given  up  their  shame- 
ful barbarism  and  decently  accepted  the  rules  of 
life  and  the  religion  of  it,  they  pressed  upon  St. 
Wilfrid  that  he  should  found  a  bishopric,  and  that 
it  should  have  a  cathedral  and  a  see  (all  of  which 
things  he  had  explained  to  them),  and  he  did 
this  on  Selsey  Bill :  but  to-day  the  sea  has 
swallowed  all. 

Time  passed,  and  the  young  man  Caedwalla, 
still  a  very  young  man  in  the  twenties,  came  to 
his  own,  and  he  sat  on  the  throne  that  was  right- 
fully his  in  Chichester  and  he  ruled  all  Sussex  to 
its  utmost  boundaries.  And  he  was  king  of 
much  more,  as  history  shows,  but  all  the  while 
he  proudly  refused  in  his  young  man's  heart  the 
raiment  and  the  manner  of  the  thing  which  he 
had  hated  in  his  exile,  nor  would  he  accept  the 
Latin  prayers,  nor  bow  to  the  name  of  the 
Christian  God. 

Caedwalla,  still  so  young  but  now  a  king, 
thought  it  shameful  that  he  should  rule  no  more 
than  the  empire  God  had  given  him,  and  he  was 
filled  with  a  longing  to  cross  the  sea  and  to 
conquer  new  land.  Wherefore,  whether  well  or 
ill  advised,  he  set  out  to  cross  the  sea  and  to 
9  139 


On  Something 

conquer  the  Isle  of  Wight,  of  which  story  said 
that  Wight  the  hero  had  established  his  kingdom 
there  in  the  old  time  before  writing  was,  and 
when  there  were  only  songs.  So  Caedwalla  and 
his  fighting  men,  they  landed  in  that  island  and 
they  fought  against  the  many  inhabitants  of  it, 
and  they  subdued  it,  but  in  these  battles  Caed- 
walla was  wounded. 

It  happened  that  the  King  of  that  island, 
whose  name  was  Atwald,  had  two  heirs,  youths, 
whom  it  was  pitifully  hoped  this  conqueror  would 
spare,  for  they  fled  up  the  Water  to  Stoneham ; 
but  a  monk  who  served  God  by  the  ford  of  reeds 
which  is  near  Hampton  at  the  head  of  the  Water, 
hearing  that  King  Caedwalla  (who  was  recovering 
of  wounds  he  had  had  in  the  war  with  the  men 
of  Wight)  had  heard  of  the  youths'  hiding-place 
and  had  determined  to  kill  them,  sought  the 
King  and  begged  that  at  least  they  might  be 
instructed  in  the  Faith  before  they  died,  saying 
to  him  :  "  King,  though  you  are  not  of  the  Faith, 
that  is  no  reason  that  you  should  deprive  others 
of  such  a  gift.  Let  me  therefore  see  that  these 
young  men  are  instructed  and  baptized,  after 
which  you  may  exercise  your  cruel  will."  And 
Caedwalla  assented.  These  lads,  therefore,  were 
taken  to  a  holy  place  up  on  Itchen,  where  they 
were  instructed  in  the  truths  and  the  mysteries 
of  religion.  And  while  this  so  went  forward 
13° 


Caedwalla 

Caedwalla  would  ask  from  time  to  time  whether 
they  were  yet  Christians. 

At  last  they  had  received  all  the  knowledge 
the  holy  men  could  give  them  and  they  were 
baptized.  When  they  were  so  received  into  the 
fold  Caedwalla  would  wait  no  longer  but  had 
them  slain.  And  it  is  said  that  they  went  to 
death  joyfully,  thinking  it  to  be  no  more  than  the 
gate  of  immortality. 

After  such  deeds  Caedwalla  still  reigned  over 
the  kingdom  of  Sussex  and  his  other  kingdoms, 
nor  did  he  by  speech  or  manner  give  the  rich  or 
poor  about  him  to  understand  whether  anything 
was  passing  in  his  heart.  But  while  they  sang 
Mass  in  the  cathedral  of  Selsey  and  while  still 
the  new-comers  came  (now  more  rarely,  for  nearly 
all  were  enrolled)  :  while  the  new-comers  came,  I 
say,  in  their  last  numbers  from  the  remotest  parts 
of  the  forest  ridge,  and  from  the  loneliest  combes 
of  the  Downs  to  hear  of  Christ  and  his  cross  and 
his  resurrection  and  the  salvation  of  men,  Caed- 
walla sat  in  Chichester  and  consulted  his  own 
heart  only  and  was  a  pagan  King.  No  one  else 
you  may  say  in  all  the  land  so  kept  himself 
apart. 

His  youth  had  been  thus  spent  and  he  thus 
ruled,  when  as  his  thirtieth  year  approached  he 
gave  forth  a  decision  to  his  nobles  and  to  his 
earls  and  to  the  Welsh-speaking  men  and  to  the 


On  Something 

seafaring  men  and  to  the  priests  and  to  all  his 
people.  He  said :  "  I  will  take  ship  and  I  will 
go  over  the  sea  to  Rome,  where  I  may  worship 
at  the  tombs  of  the  blessed  Apostles,  and  there 
I  will  be  baptized.  But  since  I  am  a  king  no 
one  but  the  Pope  shall  baptize  me.  I  will  do 
penance  for  my  sins.  I  will  lift  my  eyes  to 
things  worthy  of  a  man.  I  will  put  behind  me 
what  was  dear  to  me,  and  I  will  accept  that 
which  is  to  come."  And  as  they  could  not  alter 
Caedwalla  in  any  of  his  previous  decisions,  so 
they  could  not  alter  him  in  this.  But  his  people 
gave  gladly  for  the  furnishing  of  his  journey, 
and  all  the  sheep  of  the  Downs  and  their  fleece, 
and  all  the  wheat  in  the  clay  steadings  of  the 
Weald,  and  the  little  vineyards  in  the  priests' 
gardens  that  looked  towards  the  sea,  and  the 
fishermen,  and  every  sort  in  Sussex  that  sail  or 
plough  or  clip  or  tend  sheep  or  reap  or  forge 
iron  at  the  hammer  ponds,  gave  of  what  they 
had  to  King  Caedwalla,  so  that  he  went  forth 
with  a  good  retinue  and  many  provisions  upon 
his  journey  to  the  tombs  of  the  Apostles. 

When  King  Caedwalla  came  to  Rome  the  Pope 
received  him  and  said  :  "  I  hear  that  you  would 
be  instructed  in  the  Faith."  To  which  King 
Caedwalla  answered  that  such  was  his  desire,  and 
that  he  would  crave  baptism  at  the  hands  of  the 
said  Pope.  And  meanwhile  Caedwalla  took  up 
132 


Caedwalla 

good  lodgings  in  Rome,  gave  money  to  the  poor, 
and  showed  himself  abroad  as  one  who  had  come 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  that  is,  from  the 
kingdom  of  Sussex,  which  in  those  days  was  not 
yet  famous.  Caedwalla,  now  being  thirty  years 
old  and  having  learnt  what  one  should  learn  in 
order  to  receive  baptism,  was  baptized,  and  they 
put  a  white  robe  on  him  which  he  was  to  wear 
for  certain  days. 

King  Caedwalla,  when  he  was  thus  made  one 
with  the  unity  of  Christian  men,  was  very  glad. 
But  he  also  said  that  before  he  had  lost  that 
white  robe  so  given  him,  death  would  come  and 
take  him  (though  he  was  a  young  man  and  a 
warrior),  and  that  not  in  battle.  He  was  certain 
it  was  so. 

And  so  indeed  it  came  about.  For  within  the 
limit  of  days  during  which  ritual  demanded  that 
the  King  should  wear  his  white  garment,  nay, 
within  that  same  week,  he  died. 

So  those  boys  who  had  found  death  at  his 
hands  had  died  after  baptism,  up  on  Itchen  in 
the  Gwent,  when  Caedwalla  the  King  had 
journeyed  out  of  Sussex  to  conquer  and  to  hold 
the  Wight  with  his  spear  and  his  sword  and 
his  shield,  and  his  captains  and  his  armoured 
men. 

Now  that  you  have  done  reading  this  story 
you  may  think  that  I  have  made  it  up  or  that  it 
133 


On  Something 

is  a  legend  or  that  it  comes  out  of  some  story- 
teller's book.  Learn,  therefore,  that  it  is  plain 
history,  like  the  battle  of  Waterloo  or  the 
Licensing  Bill  (differing  from  the  chronicle  only 
in  this,  that  I  have  put  living  words  into  the 
mouths  of  men),  and  be  assured  that  the  history 
of  England  is  a  very  wonderful  thing. 


134 


A  Unit  of  England    *o  <^ 

NGLAND  has  been  lucky  in  its  type  of  sub- 
division.  All  over  Western  Europe  the  type 
of  subdivision  following  in  the  fall  of  the  Empire 
has  been  of  capital  importance  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  great  nations,  but  while  these  have 
elsewhere  been  exaggerated  to  petty  kingdoms 
or  diminished  to  mere  townships  in  Britain,  for 
centuries  the  counties  have  formed  true  and 
lasting  local  units,  and  they  have  survived  with 
more  vigour  than  the  corresponding  divisions  of 
the  other  provinces  of  Roman  Europe. 

That  accident  of  the  county  moulded  and  sus- 
tained local  feeling  during  the  generations  when 
local  government  and  local  initiative  were  dying 
elsewhere ;  it  has  preserved  a  sort  of  aristocratic 
independence,  the  survival  of  custom,  and  the 
differentiation  of  the  State. 

It  is  not  necessarily  (as  many  historians  un- 
acquainted with  Europe  as  a  whole  have  taken 
for  granted)  a  supreme  advantage  for  any  people 
to  escape  from  institution  of  a  strong  central 
executive.  Such  a  power  is  the  normal  fruit  of 
all  high  civilizations.  It  protects  the  weak 
135 


On  Something 

against  the  strong.  It  is  necessary  for  rapid 
action  in  war,  it  makes  for  clarity  and  method 
during  peace.,  it  secures  a  minimum  for  all,  and 
it  forbids  the  illusions  and  vices  of  the  rich  to 
taint  the  whole  commonwealth. 

But  though  such  an  escape  from  strong  central 
government  and  the  substitution  for  it  of  a  ruling 
class  is  not  a  supreme  advantage,  it  has  advan- 
tages of  its  own  which  every  foreign  historian 
of  England  has  recognized,  and  it  is  the  divisions 
into  counties  which,  after  the  change  of  religion 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  was  mainly  responsible 
for  the  slow  substitution  of  local  and  oligarchic 
for  general,  central,  and  bureaucratic  government 
in  England. 

Not  all  the  counties  by  any  means  are  true  to 
type.  All  the  Welsh  divisions,  for  instance,  are 
more  or  less  artificial  and  late,  with  the  exception 
of  Anglesey.  And  as  for  the  non-Roman  parts, 
Ireland  and  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  it  goes 
without  saying  that  the  county  never  was,  and  is 
not  to  this  day,  a  true  unit.  The  central  and  much 
of  the  west  of  England  is  the  same.  That  is,  the 
shires  are  cut  as  their  name  implies,  somewhat 
arbitrarily,  from  the  general  mass  of  territory. 

When   one   says   "arbitrarily"   one    does   not 

mean  that  no  local   sentiment  bound  them,  or 

that  they  had  not  some  natural  basis,  for  they 

had.     They  were  the  territory  of  central  towns : 

136 


A  Unit  of  England 

Shrewsbury,  Warwick,  Derby,  Chester,  Oxford, 
Buckingham,  Bedford,  Nottingham.  But  their 
life  was  not  and  has  not  since  been  strongly 
individual.  They  have  not  continuous  boundaries 
nor  an  early  national  root.  But  all  round  these, 
in  a  sort  of  ring,  run  the  counties  which  have 
had  true  local  life  from  the  beginning.  Cornwall 
is  utterly  different  from  Devon,  and  with  a  clear 
historic  reason  for  the  difference.  Devon,  again, 
is  a  perfectly  separate  unit,  resulting  from  a 
definite  political  act  of  the  early  ninth  century. 
Of  Dorset  and  Hampshire  one  can  say  less,  but 
with  Sussex  you  get  a  unit  which  has  been  one 
kingdom  and  one  diocese,  set  in  true  natural 
limits  and  lying  within  these  same  boundaries  for 
much  more  than  a  thousand  years.  Kent, 
probably  an  original  Roman  division,  has  been 
one  unit  for  longer  still.  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  and 
Essex  are  equally  old,  though  not  upon  their 
land  boundaries  equally  defined ;  but  perhaps 
the  most  sharply  defined  of  all — after  Sussex,  at 
least — was  Southern  and  Central  Lancashire. 

Its  topography  was  like  one  of  those  ideal 
examples  which  military  instructors  take  for 
their  models  when  they  wish  to  simplify  a  lesson 
upon  terrain.  Upon  one  side  ran  the  long,  high, 
and  difficult  range  which  is  the  backbone  of 
England ;  upon  the  other  the  sea,  and  the  sea 
and  the  mountains  leant  one  towards  the  other, 
137 


On  Something 

making  two  sides  of  a  triangle  that  met  above 
Morecambe  Bay. 

How  formidable  the  natural  barriers  of  this 
triangle  were  it  is  not  easy  for  the  student  of 
our  time  to  recognize.  It  needs  a  general  survey 
of  the  past,  and  a  knowledge  of  many  unfamiliar 
conditions  in  the  present,  to  appreciate  it. 

The  difficulty  of  those  Eastern  moors  and  hills, 
for  instance,  the  resistance  they  offer  to  human 
passage,  meets  you  continually  throughout 
English  history.  The  engineers  of  the  modern 
railways  could  give  one  a  whole  romance  of  it ; 
the  story  of  every  army  that  has  had  to  cross 
them,  and  of  which  we  have  record,  bears  the 
same  witness.  The  illusion  which  the  modern 
traveller  may  be  under  that  the  barrier  is  negli- 
gible is  very  soon  dispelled  when  for  his  recrea- 
tion he  crosses  it  by  any  other  methods  than  the 
railway ;  and  perhaps  in  such  an  experience  of 
travel  nothing  more  impresses  one  in  the  charac- 
ter of  that  barrier  than  the  lonelinexs. 

There  is  no  other  corresponding  contrast  of 
men  and  emptiness  that  I  know  of  in  Europe. 

The  great  towns  lie,  enormous,  pullulating, 
millioned  in  the  plains  on  either  side  ;  they  push 
their  limbs  up  far  into  the  valleys.  Between 
them,  utterly  deserted,  you  have  these  miles  and 
miles  of  bare  upland,  like  the  roof  of  a  house 
between  two  crowded  streets. 
138 


A  Unit  of  England 

Merely  to  cross  the  Pennines,  driving  or  on 
foot,,  is  sufficient  to  teach  one  this.  To  go  the 
length  of  the  hills  along  the  watershed  from  the 
Peak  to  Crossfell  (few  people  have  done  it !)  is  to 
get  an  impression  of  desertion  and  separation 
which  you  will  match  nowhere  else  in  travel  : 
nowhere  else,  at  least,  within  touch  and  almost 
hearing  of  great  towns. 

The  sea  also  was  here  more  of  a  barrier  than  a 
bond.  Ireland — not  Roman,  and  later  an  enemy — 
lay  over  against  that  shore.  Its  ports  (save  one) 
silted.  Its  slope  from  the  shore  was  shallow  : 
the  approach  and  the  beaching  of  a  fleet  not 
easy.  Its  river  mouths  were  few  and  dangerous. 

This  triangle  of  Lancashire,  so  cut  off  from  the 
west  and  from  the  east,  had  for  its  base  a  barrier 
that  completed  its  isolation.  That  barrier  was 
the  marshy  valley  of  the  Mersey.  It  could  be 
outflanked  only  at  its  extreme  eastern  point, 
where  the  valley  rises  to  the  hundred-foot  con- 
tour line.  From  that  point  the  valley  rises  so 
rapidly  within  half  a  dozen  miles  into  the  eastern 
hills  that  it  was  dry  even  under  primitive  con- 
ditions, and  the  opportunity  here  afforded  for  a 
passage  is  marked  by  the  topographical  point 
of  Stock  port. 

By  that  gate  the  main  avenues  of  approach 
still  enter  the  county.  Through  this  gap  passed 
the  London  Road,  and  passes  to-day  the  London 
139 


On  Something 

and  North- Western  Railway.  It  was  this  gate 
which  gave  its  early  strategic  importance  to 
Manchester,  lying  just  north  of  it  and  holding 
the  whole  of  this  corner. 

Historians  have  noted  that  to  hold  Manchester 
was  ultimately  to  hold  Lancashire  itself.  It  was 
not  the  industrial  importance  of  the  town,  for 
that  was  hardly  existent  until  quite  modern 
times :  it  was  its  strategic  position  which  gave 
it  such  a  character.  The  Roman  fort  at  the 
junction  of  the  two  rivers  near  Knott  Mill 
represented  the  first  good  defensible  position 
commanding  this  gate  upon  the  south-east. 

To  enter  the  county  anywhere  west  of  the 
hundred-foot  contour  and  the  Mersey  Valley  was, 
for  an  army  deprived  of  modern  methods,  im- 
possible :  a  little  organized  destruction  would 
make  it  impossible  again. 

Two  artificial  causeways  negotiated  the  valley. 
Each  bears  to  this  day  (at  Stretford  and  at 
Stretton)  the  proof  of  its  old  character,  for  both 
words  indicate  the  passage  of  a  "street,"  that 
is,  of  a  hard-made  way,  over  the  soft  and  drowned 
land.  Stretford  was  but  the  approach  to  Man- 
chester from  Chester — and  Manchester  thus 
commanded  (by  the  way)  the  two  south-eastern 
approaches  to  the  county,  the  one  natural,  the 
other  artificial.  The  approach  by  Stretton  gave 
Warrington  its  strategic  importance  in  the  early 
140 


A  Unit  of  England 

history  of  the  county ;  Warrington,  the  central 
point  upon  the  Mersey,  standing  at  a  clear  day's 
march  from  Liverpool,  the  port  on  the  one  hand, 
and  a  clear  day's  march  from  Manchester  on 
the  other.  It  was  from  Warrington  that  Lord 
Strange  marched  upon  Manchester  at  the  very 
beginning  of  the  Civil  War,  and  if  by  some 
accident  this  stretch  of  territory  should  again 
be  a  scene  of  warfare,  Warrington,  in  spite 
of  the  close  network  of  modern  communications, 
would  be  the  strategic  centre  of  the  county 
boundary. 

So  one  might  take  the  units  out  of  which 
modern  England  has  been  built  up  one  by  one, 
showing  that  their  boundaries  were  fixed  by 
nature,  and  that  their  local  separation  was  not 
the  product  of  the  pirate  raids,  but  is  something 
infinitely  older,  older  than  the  Empire,  and  very 
probably  (did  we  know  what  the  Roman  divisions 
of  Britain  were)  accepted  under  the  Empire. 
So  one  might  prove  or  at  least  suggest  that  the 
strategical  character  of  the  English  county  and 
of  its  chief  stronghold  and  barriers  lay  in  an 
origin  far  beyond  the  limits  of  recorded  history. 
To  produce  such  a  study  would  be  to  add  to  the 
truth  and  reality  of  our  history,  for  England  was 
not  made  nor  even  moulded  by  the  Danish  and 
the  Saxon  raids.  The  framework  is  far,  far  older 
and  so  strong  that  it  still  survives. 
141 


The  Relic 

T  T  was  upon  an  evening  in  Spain,  but  with 
nothing  which  that  word  evokes  for  us  in  the 
North — for  it  was  merely  a  lessening  of  the  light 
without  dews,  without  mists,  and  without  skies — 
that  I  came  up  a  stony  valley  and  saw  against  the 
random  line  of  the  plateau  at  its  head  the  dome 
of  a  church.  The  road  I  travelled  was  but  faintly 
marked,  and  was  often  lost  and  mingled  with  the 
rough  boulders  and  the  sand,  and  in  the  shallow 
depression  of  the  valley  there  were  but  a  few 
stagnant  pools. 

The  shape  of  the  dome  was  Italian,  and  it 
should  have  stood  in  an  Italian  landscape,  drier 
indeed  than  that  to  which  Northerners  are  accus- 
tomed, but  still  surrounded  by  trees,  and  with  a 
distance  that  could  render  things  lightly  blue. 
Instead  of  that  this  large  building  stood  in  the 
complete  waste  which  I  have  already  described 
at  such  length,  which  is  so  appalling  and  so 
new  to  an  European  from  any  other  province  of 
Europe.  As  I  approached  the  building  I  saw 
that  there  gathered  round  it  a  village,  or  rather  a 
group  of  dependent  houses ;  for  the  church  was 
142 


The  Relic 

so  much  larger  than  anything  in  the  place,  and 
the  material  of  which  the  church  itself  and  the 
habitations  were  built  was  so  similar,  the  flat  old 
tiled  roofs  all  mixed  under  the  advance  of  dark- 
ness into  so  united  a  body,  that  one  would  have 
said,  as  was  perhaps  historically  the  truth,  that 
the  church  was  not  built  for  the  needs  of  the  place, 
but  that  the  borough  had  grown  round  the  shrine, 
and  had  served  for  little  save  to  house  its  servants. 
When  the  long  ascent  was  ended  and  the  crest 
reached,  where  the  head  of  the  valley  merged 
into  the  upper  plain,  I  passed  into  the  narrow 
first  lanes.  It  was  now  quite  dark.  The  dark- 
ness had  come  suddenly,  and,  to  make  all  things 
consonant,  there  was  no  moon  and  there  were  not 
any  stars  ;  clouds  had  risen  of  an  even  and  mena- 
cing sort,  and  one  could  see  no  heaven.  Here 
and_  there  lights  began  to  show  in  the  houses, 
but  most  people  were  in  the  street,  talking  loudly 
from  their  doorsteps  to  each  other.  They  watched 
me  as  I  came  along  because  1  was  a  foreigner, 
and  I  went  down  till  I  reached  the  central 
market-place,  wondering  how  I  should  tell  the 
best  place  for  sleep.  But  long  before  my  choice 
could  be  made  my  thoughts  were  turned  in 
another  direction  by  finding  myself  at  a  turn  of 
the  irregular  paving,  right  in  front  of  a  vast 
fa9ade,  and  behind  it,  somewhat  belittled  by  the 
great  length  of  the  church  itself,  the  dome  just 
M3 


On  Something 

showed.  I  had  come  to  the  very  steps  of  the 
church  which  had  accompanied  my  thoughts  and 
had  been  a  goal  before  me  during  all  the  last 
hours  of  the  day. 

In  the  presence  of  so  wonderful  a  thing  I 
forgot  the  object  of  my  journey  and  the  immedi- 
ate care  of  the  moment,  and  I  went  through  the 
great  doors  that  opened  on  the  Place.  These 
were  carved,  and  by  the  little  that  lingered  of 
the  light  and  the  glimmer  of  the  electric  light 
on  the  neighbouring  wall  (for  there  is  electric 
light  everywhere  in  Spain,  but  it  is  often  of  a 
red  heat)  I  could  perceive  that  these  doors  were 
wonderfully  carved.  Already  at  Saragossa,  and 
several  times  during  my  walking  south  from 
thence,  I  had  noted  that  what  the  Spaniards  did 
had  a  strange  affinity  to  the  work  of  Flanders. 
The  two  districts  differ  altogether  save  in  the 
human  character  of  those  who  inhabit  them  :  the 
one  is  pastoral,  full  of  deep  meadows  and  per- 
petual woods,  of  minerals  and  of  coal  for  modern 
energy,  of  harbours  and  good  tidal  rivers  for  the 
industry  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  the  other  is  a 
desert  land,  far  up  in  the  sky,  with  an  air  like  a 
knife,  and  a  complete  absence  of  the  creative 
sense  in  nature  about  one.  Yet  in  both  the 
creation  of  man  runs  riot;  in  both  there  is  a  sort 
of  endlessness  of  imagination ;  in  both  every 
detail  that  man  achieves  in  art  is  carefully  com- 
144 


The  Relic 

pleted  and  different  from  its  neighbour ;  and  in 
both  there  is  an  exuberance  of  the  human  soul : 
but  with  this  difference,  that  something  in  the 
Spanish  temper  has  killed  the  grotesque.  Both 
districts  have  been  mingled  in  history,  yet  it  is 
not  the  Spaniard  who  has  invigorated  the  Delta 
of  the  Rhine  and  the  high  country  to  the  south 
of  it,  nor  the  Walloons  and  the  Flemings  who 
have  taught  the  Spaniards ;  but  each  of  these 
highly  separated  peoples  resembles  the  other 
when  it  comes  to  the  outward  expression  of  the 
soul :  why,  I  cannot  tell. 

Within,  there  is  not  a  complete  darkness,  but 
a  series  of  lights  showing  against  the  silence  of 
the  blackness  of  the  nave  ;  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  nave,  like  a  great  funeral  thing,  was  the 
choir  which  these  Spanish  churches  have  pre- 
served, an  intact  tradition,  /rom  the  origins  of 
the  Christian  Faith.  Go  to  the  earliest  of  the 
basilicas  in  Rome,  and  you  will  see  that  sacred 
enclosure  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  edifice 
and  taking  up  a  certain  proportion  of  the  whole. 
We  in  the  North,  where  the  Faith  lived  uninter- 
ruptedly and,  after  the  ninth  century,  with  no 
great  struggle,  dwindled  this  feature  and  ex- 
tended the  open  and  popular  space,  keeping  only 
the  rood-screen  as  a  hint  of  what  had  once  been 
the  Secret  Mysteries  and  the  Initiations  of  our 
origins.  But  here  in  Spain  the  earliest  forms  of 
10  145 


On  Something 

Christian  externals  crystallized,  as  it  were ;  the}- 
were  thrust,  like  an  insult  or  a  challenge,  against 
the  Asiatic  as  the  reconquest  of  the  desolated 
province  proceeded ;  and  therefore  in  every 
Spanish  church  you  have,  side  by  side  with  the 
Christian  riot  of  art,  this  original  hierarchic  and 
secret  thing,  almost  shocking  to  a  Northerner, 
the  choir,  the  Coro,  with  high  solemn  walls  shut- 
ting out  the  people  from  the  priests  and  from  the 
Mysteries  as  they  had  been  shut  out  when  the 
whole  system  was  organized  for  defence  against 
an  inimical  society  around. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  not  complete  nor, 
as  I  have  said,  was  the  darkness.  At  the  far  end 
of  the  choir,  behind  the  high  altar,  was  the  light 
of  many  candles,  and  there  were  people  murmur- 
ing or  whispering,  though  not  at  prayers.  There 
was  a  young  priest  passing  me  at  that  moment, 
and  I  said  to  him  in  Latin  of  the  common  sort 
that  I  could  speak  no  Spanish.  1  asked  him  if 
he  could  speak  to  me  slowly  in  Latin,  as  I  was 
speaking  to  him.  He  answered  me  with  this 
word,  "  Paiicissime"  which  I  easily  understood. 
I  then  asked  him  very  carefully,  and  speaking 
slowly,  whether  Benediction  were  about  to  be 
held — an  evening  rite;  but  as  I  did  not  know 
the  Latin  for  Benediction,  I  called  it  alternately 
"  Benedictio,"  which  is  English,  and  <•  Salus," 
which  is  French.  He  said  twice,  "Si,  si,"  which, 
146 


The  Relic 

whether  it  were  Italian  or  French  or  local,  I 
understood  by  the  nodding  of  his  head ;  but  at 
any  rate  he  had  not  caught  my  meaning,  for 
when  I  came  behind  the  high  altar  where  the 
candles  were,  and  knelt  there,  I  clearly  saw  that 
no  preparations  for  Benediction  were  toward. 
There  was  not  even  an  altar.  All  there  was 
was  a  pair  o'f  cupboard  doors,  as  it  were,  of  very 
thickly  carved  wood,  very  heavily  gilded  and 
very  old ;  indeed,  the  pattern  of  the  carving  was 
barbaric,  and  I  think  it  must  have  dated  from 
that  turn  of  the  Dark  into  the  Middle  Ages 
when  so  much  of  our  Christian  work  resembled 
the  work  of  savages  :  spirals  and  hideous  heads, 
and  serpents  and  other  things. 

By  this  I  was  already  enormously  impressed, 
and  by  a  little  group  of  paople  around  of  whom 
perhap?  half  were  children,  when  the  young 
priest  to  whom  I  had  spoken  approached  and, 
calling  a  well-dressed  man  of  the  middle  class 
who  stood  by  and  who  had,  I  suppose,  some  local 
prominence,  went  up  the  steps  with  him  towards 
these  wooden  doors ;  he  fitted  a  key  into  the 
lock  and  opened  them  wide.  The  candles  shone 
at  once  through  thick  clear  glass  upon  a  frame  of 
jewels  which  flashed  wonderfully,  and  in  their 
midst  was  the  head  of  a  dead  man,  cut  off  from 
the  body,  leaning  somewhat  sideways,  and 
chaned  in  a  terrible  manner  from  the  ex- 


On  Something 

pression  of  living  men.  It  was  so  changed,  not 
only  by  incalculable  age,  but  also,  as  I  presume, 
by  the  violence  of  his  death. 

To  those  inexperienced  in  the  practice  of  such 
worship  there  might  be  more  excuse  for  the  novel 
impression  which  this  sight  suddenly  produced 
upon  me.  Our  race  from  its  very  beginning, 
nay,  all  the  races  of  men,  have  preserved  the 
fleshly  memorials  of  those  to  whom  sanctity 
attached,  and  I  have  seen  such  relics  in  many 
parts  of  Europe  almost  as  commonplaces ;  but 
for  some  reason  my  emotions  upon  that  evening 
were  of  a  different  kind.  The  length  of  the  way 
(for  I  was  miles  and  miles  southwards  over  this 
desert  waste),  the  ignorance  of  the  language 
which  surrounded  me,  the  inhuman  outline  hour 
after  hour  under  the  glare  of  the  sun,  or  in  the 
inhospitable  darkness  of  this  hard  Iberian  land, 
the  sternness  of  the  faces,  the  violent  richness 
and  the  magnitude  of  the  architecture  about  me, 
and  my  knowledge  of  the  trials  through  which 
the  province  had  passed,  put  me  in  this  Presence 
into  a  mood  very  different,  I  think,  from  that 
which  pilgrimage  is  calculated  to  arouse ;  there 
was  in  it  much  more  of  awe,  and  even  of  terror ; 
there  seemed  to  re-arise  in  the  presence  of  that 
distorted  face  the  memories  of  active  pain  and  of 
the  unconquerable  struggle  by  which  this  ruined 
land  was  recovered.  I  wondered  as  I  looked  at 
148 


The  Relic 

that  face  whether  he  had  fallen  in  protest  against 
the  Mohammedans,  or,  as  have  so  many,  in  a 
Spanish  endurance  of  torture,  martyred  by  Pagans 
in  the  Pacific  Seas.  But  no  history  of  him  was 
given  to  me,  nor  do  I  now  know  as  I  write  what 
occasion  it  was  that  made  this  head  so  great. 

They  said  but  a  few  prayers,  all  familiar  to 
me,  in  the  Latin  tongue  ;  then  the  "  Our  Father  " 
and  some  few  others  which  have  always  been 
recited  in  the  vernacular.  They  next  intoned 
the  Salve  Regina.  But  what  an  intonation  ! 

Had  I  not  heard  that  chant  often  enough  in 
my  life  to  catch  its  meaning  ?  I  had  never  heard 
it  set  to  such  a  tune  !  It  was  harsh,  it  was  full 
of  battle,  and  the  supplication  in  it  throbbed 
with  present  and  physical  agony.  Had  I  cared 
less  for  the  human  beings  about  me,  so  much 
suffering,  so  much  national  tradition  of  suffering 
would  have  revolted,  as  it  did  indeed  appal,  me. 
The  chant  came  to  an  end,  and  the  three  gracious 
epithets  in  which  it  closes  were  full  of  wailing, 
and  the  children's  voices  were  very  high. 

Then  the  priest  shut  the  doors  and  locked 
them,  and  a  boy  came  and  blew  the  candles  out 
one  by  one,  and  I  went  out  into  the  market- 
place, fuller  than  ever  of  Spain. 


149 


The   Ironmonger 

~\I  /HEN  I  was  in  the  French  army  we  came 
*  *  one  day  with  the  guns  in  July  along  a 
straight  and  dusty  road  and  clattered  into 
the  village  called  Bar-le-Duc.  Of  the  details 
of  such  marches  I  have  often  written.  I  wish 
now  to  speak  of  another  thing,  which,  in  long 
accounts  of  mere  rumbling  of  guns,  one  might 
never  have  time  to  tell,  but  which  is  really  the 
most  important  of  all  experiences  under  arms  in 
France — I  mean  the  older  civilians,  the  fathers. 

Who  made  the  French  army  ?  Who  determined 
to  recover  from  the  defeats  and  to  play  once 
more  that  determined  game  which  makes  up  half 
French  history,  the  "Thesaurization,"  the  gradual 
reaccumulation  of  power  ?  The  general  answer 
to  such  questions  is  to  say  :  "  The  nation  being 
beaten  had  to  set  to  and  recover  its  old  position." 
That  answer  is  insufficient.  It  deals  in  abstrac- 
tions and  it  tells  you  nothing.  Plenty  of  political 
societies  throughout  history  have  sat  down  under 
disaster  and  consented  to  sink  slowly.  Many 
have  done  worse — they  have  maintained  after 
sharp  warnings  the  pride  of  their  blind  years ; 


The  Ironmonger 

they  have  maintained  that  pride  on  into  the  great 
disasters,  and  when  these  came  they  have  sullenly 
died.  France  neither  consented  to  sink  nor  died 
by  being  overweening.  Some  men  must  have 
been  at  work  to  force  their  sons  into  the  con- 
scription, to  consent  to  heavy  taxation,  to  be 
vigilant,  accumulative,  tenacious,  and,  as  it  were, 
constantly  eager.  There  must  have  been  classes 
in  which,  unknown  to  themselves,  the  stirp  of  the 
nation  survived ;  individuals  who,  aiming  at 
twenty  different  things,  managed,  as  a  resultant, 
to  carry  up  the  army  to  the  pitch  in  which  I  had 
known  it  and  to  lay  a  slow  foundation  for  re- 
covered vigour.  Who  were  these  men  ? 

I  had  read  of  them  in  Birmingham  when  1  was 
at  school ;  I  had  read  of  them  in  books  when  I 
read  of  the  Hundred  Years'  War  and  of  the 
Revolution.  I  was  to  read  of  them  again  in 
books  at  Oxford.  But  on  that  Saturday  at  Bar- 
le-Duc  I  saw  one  of  them,  and  by  as  much  as  the 
physical  impression  is  worth  more  than  the 
secondary  effect  of  history,  my  sight  of  them  is 
worth  writing  down. 

A  man  in  my  battery,  one  Matthieu,  told  me 
he  had  leave  to  go  out  for  the  evening,  and  told 
me  also  to  go  and  get  leave.  He  said  his  uncle 
had  asked  him  to  dine  and  bring  a  friend.  It 
seemed  his  uncle  lived  in  a  villa  on  the  heights 
above  the  town  ;  he  was  an  ironmonger  who  had 


On  Something 

retired.  I  went  to  my  Sergeant  and  asked  him 
for  leave. 

My  Sergeant  was  a  noble  who  was  working  his 
way  up  through  the  ranks,  and  when  I  found  him 
he  was  checking  off  forage  at  a  barn  where  some 
of  our  men  were  working.  He  looked  me  hard 
in  the  eyes,  and  said  in  a  drawling  lackadaisical 
voice  : 

"  You  are  the  Englishman  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sergeant,"  said  I  a  little  anxiously  (for 
I  was  very  keen  to  get  a  good  dinner  in  town 
after  all  that  marching). 

"Well,"  said  he,  "as  you  are  the  Englishman 
you  can  go."  Such  is  the  logic  of  the  service. 

The  army  is  no  place  to  argue,  and  I  went. 
I  suppose  what  he  meant  was,  "  As  we  are  both 
more  or  less  in  exile,  take  my  blessing  and  be 
off,"  but  he  may  merely  have  meant  to  be  incon- 
sequent, for  inconsequence  is  the  wit  of  schoolboys 
and  soldiers.  I  went  up  the  hill  with  my  friend. 

The  long  twilight  was  still  broad  over  the  hill 
and  the  old  houses  of  Bar-le-Duc,  as  we  climbed. 
It  was  night  by  the  clock,  but  one  could  have  seen 
to  read.  We  were  tired,  and  talked  of  nothing 
in  particular,  but  such  things  as  we  said  were  full 
of  the  old  refrain  of  conscripts :  "  Dog  of  a 
trade,"  "  When  shall  we  be  out  of  it  ?  "  Even 
as  we  spoke  there  was  pride  in  our  breasts  at  the 
noise  of  trumpets  in  the  mist  below  along  the 
152 


The  Ironmonger 

river  and  the  Eighth  making  its  presence  known, 
and  our  uniforms  and  our  swords. 

We  stopped  at  last  before  a  little  square  house 
with  "The  Lilacs"  painted  on  its  gate;  there 
was  a  parched  little  lawn,  a  little  fountain,  a 
tripod  supporting  a  globular  mirror,  and  we  went 
in. 

Matthieu's  uncle  met  us ;  he  was  in  a  cotton 
Suit  walking  about  among  his  flowers  and  enjoy- 
ing the  evening.  He  was  a  man  of  about  fifty, 
short,  strong,  brown,  and  abrupt.  Though  it  was 
already  evening  and  one  could  see  little,  we  knew 
well  enough  that  his  eyes  were  steady  and  dark. 
For  he  had  the  attitude  and  carriage  of  those  men 
who  invigorate  France.  His  self-confidence  was 
evident  in  his  sturdy  legs  and  his  arms  akimbo, 
his  vulgarity  in  his  gesture,  his  narrowness  in  his 
forward  and  peering  look,  his  indomitable  energy 
in  every  movement  of  his  body.  It  did  not  sur- 
prise me  to  learn  in  his  later  conversation  that  he 
was  a  Republican.  He  spoke  at  once  to  us  both, 
saying  in  a  kind  of  grumbling  shout : 

"  Well,  gunners  !  " 

Then  he  spoke  roughly  to  his  nephew,  telling 
him  we  were  late  :  to  me  a  little  too  politely 
saying  he  put  no  blame  on  me,  but  only  on  his 
scapegrace  of  a  nephew.  I  said  that  our  late- 
ness was  due  to  having  to  find  the  Sergeant. 
He  answered  : 

153 


On  Something 

"  One  must  always  put  the  blame  on  some  one 
else/'  which  was  rank  bad  manners. 

He  led  the  way  into  the  house.  The  dining- 
room  gave  on  to  a  veranda,  and  beyond  this  was 
another  little  lawn  with  trees.  In  the  dark  a  few 
insects  chirped,  and,  as  the  evening  was  warmish, 
one  smelt  the  flowers.  The  windows  had  been 
left  open.  Everything  was  clean,  neat,  and  bare. 
On  the  walls  were  two  excellent  old  prints, 
a  badly  drawn  certificate  of  membership  in  some 
society  or  other,  a  still  worse  portrait  of  a  local 
worthy,  and  a  water-colour  painted,  I  suppose,  by 
his  daughter. 

He  introduced  me  to  his  wife,  a  hard-featured 
woman,  with  thin  hair,  full  of  duty,  busy  and 
precise — fresh  from  the  kitchen.  We  unhooked 
our  swords  with  the  conventional  clatter,  and  sat 
down  to  the  meal. 

I  will  confess  that  as  we  ate  those  excellent 
dishes  (they  were  all  excellent)  and  drank  that 
ordinary  wine,  I  seemed  to  be  living  in  a  book 
rather  than  among  living  men.  Here  was  I, 
a  young  English  boy,  thrust  by  accident  into  the 
French  army.  Fairly  acquainted  with  its  lan- 
guage, though  I  spoke  it  with  an  accent ;  taken 
(of  course)  by  my  host  for  a  pure  Englishman, 
though  half  my  blood  was  French.  Here  was  I 
sitting  at  his  side  and  watching  things,  and  learn- 
ing— as  for  him.  men  like  him,  of  whom  England 
154 


The  Ironmonger 

has  some  few  left  in  forgotten  villages,  and  who 
are,  when  they  can  be  found,  the  strength  of 
a  State,  they  never  bother  about  learning  any- 
thing far  removed  from  their  realities. 

I  noticed  the  one  servant  going  in  and  out 
rapidly,  bullied  a  good  deal  by  her  master,  deft 
but  nervous.  I  noticed  how  everything  was  solid 
and  good  :  the  chairs,  table,  clock,  clothes — and 
especially  the  cooking.  I  saw  his  local  newspaper 
neatly  folded  on  the  mantelpiece.  I  saw  the  pet 
dog  of  his  retirement  crouching  at  his  side,  and 
I  heard  the  chance  sayings  he  threw  to  his 
nephew,  the  maxims  granted  to  youth  long  ago. 
I  wondered  how  much  that  nephew  would  inherit. 
I  guessed  about  ten  thousand  pounds  at  the 
least,  and  twenty  at  the  most.  1  was  almost  in- 
clined to  cross  myself  at  the  thought  of  such 
a  lot  of  money. 

My  host  grew  more  genial :  he  asked  me  ques- 
tions on  England.  His  wife  also  was  interested 
in  that  country.  They  both  knew  more  about  it 
than  their  class  in  England  knows  about  France : 
and  this  astonished  me,  for,  in  the  gentry,  English 
gentlemen  know  more  about  France  than  French 
gentlemen  know  about  England. 

He  asked  me  if  agriculture  were  still  in  a  bad 

way ;  why  we  had  not  more  of  the  people  at  the 

Universities ;  why  we  allowed  only  lords  into  our 

Parliament,  and  whether  there  were  more  French 

15 


On  Something 

commercial  travellers  in  England  than  English 
commercial  travellers  in  France.  In  all  these 
points  I  admitted,,  supplemented,  and  corrected, 
and  probably  distorted  his  impressions. 

He  asked  me  if  English  gunners  were  good. 
I  said  I  did  not  know,  but  I  thought  so.  He 
replied  that  the  English  drivers  had  a  high  repu- 
tation in  his  country — his  brother  (the  brother 
of  an  ironmonger)  was  a  Captain  of  the  Horse 
Artillery,  and  had  told  him  so.  And  this  he  said 
to  me,  who  wore  a  French  uniform,  but  whose 
heart  was  away  up  in  Arun  Valley,  in  my  own 
woods,  and  at  rest  and  alone. 

In  the  last  hour  when  we  had  to  be  getting 
back  a  certain  tenderness  came  into  his  somewhat 
mercenary  look.  He  devoted  himself  more  to 
his  nephew ;  he  took  him  aside,  and,  with  some 
ceremony,  gave  him  money.  He  offered  us 
cigars.  We  took  one  each.  His  round  French 
face  became  all  wrinkles,  like  a  cracked  plate. 
He  said : 

« Bah  !  Take  them  by  the  pocketful !  We 
know  what  life  is  in  the  regiment,"  and  he 
crammed  half  a  dozen  each  into  the  pocket  of 
our  tunics.  But  when  he  said  "  We  know  what 
the  life  is,"  he  lied.  For  he  had  only  been  a 
"mobile"  in  '70.  He  had  voted,  but  never 
suffered,  the  conscription. 

So  we  said  good  night  to  this  man,  our  host, 
156 


The  Ironmonger 

who  had  so  regaled  us.  I  may  be  wrong,  but 
I  fancy  he  was  an  anti-clerical.  He  was  a  hard 
man,  just,  eager,  and  attentive,  narrow,  as  I  have 
said,  and  unconsciously  (as  I  have  also  said) 
building  up  the  nation. 

There  was  the  Ironmonger  of  Bar-le-Duc  ;  and 
there  are  hundreds  of  thousands  of  the  same 
kind. 


157 


A  Force  in  Gaul 

'"THERE  is  ;i  force  in  Gaul  which  is  of  prime 
consequence  to  all  Europe.  It  has  canal- 
ized European  religion,  fixed  European  law,  and 
latterly  launched  a  renewed  political  ideal.  It 
is  very  vigorous  to  day. 

It  was  this  force  which  made  the  massacres 
of  September,  which  overthrew  Robespierre, 
which  elected  Napoleon.  In  a  more  concen- 
trated form,  it  was  this  force  which  combined 
into  so  puissant  a  whole  the  separate  men — not 
men  of  genius — who  formed  the  Committee  of 
Public  Safety.  It  is  this  force  which  made  the 
Commune,  so  that  to  this  day  no  individual  can 
quite  tell  you  what  the  Commune  was  driving  at. 
And  it  is  this  force  which  at  the  present  moment 
so  grievously  misunderstands  and  overestimates 
the  strength  of  the  armies  which  are  the  rivals 
of  the  French ;  indeed,  in  that  connexion  it 
might  truly  be  said  that  the  peace  of  Europe 
is  preserved  much  more  by  the  German  know- 
ledge of  what  the  French  army  is,  even  than  by 
French  ignorance  of  what  the  German  army  is. 

I  say  the  disadvantages  of  this  force  or  quality 
158 


A  Force  in  Gaul 

in  a  commonwealth  are  apparent,  for  the  weak- 
ness and  disadvantages  of  something  extraneous 
to  ourselves  are  never  difficult  to  grasp.  What 
is  of  more  moment  for  us  is  to  understand,  with 
whatever  difficulty,  the  strength  which  such  a 
quality  conveys.  Not  to  have  understood  that 
strength,  nay,  not  to  have  appreciated  the  exist- 
ence of  the  force  of  which  I  speak,  has  made 
nearly  all  the  English  histories  of  France  worth- 
less. French  turbulence  is  represented  in  them 
as  anarchy,  and  the  whole  of  the  great  story 
which  has  been  the  central  pivot  of  Western 
Europe  appears  as  an  incongruous  series  of  mis- 
fortunes. Even  Carlyle,  with  his  astonishing 
grasp  of  men  and  his  power  of  rapid  integration 
from  a  few  details  (for  he  read  hardly  anything 
of  his  subject),  never  comprehended  this  force. 
He  could  understand  a  master  ordering  about 
a  lot  of  servants ;  indeed,  he  would  have  liked  to 
have  been  a  servant  himself,  and  was  one  to  the 
best  of  his  ability ;  but  he  could  not  understand 
self-organization  from  below.  Yet  upon  the  ex- 
istence of  that  power  depends  the  whole  business 
of  the  Revolution.  Its  strength,  then,  (and  prin- 
cipal advantage),  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  makes 
democracy  possible  at  critical  moments,  even  in 
a  large  community. 

There  is  no  one,  or  hardly  any  one,  so  wicked 
or  so  stupid    as  to  deny   the   democratic   ideal. 
'59 


On  Something 

There  is  no  one,  or  hardly  any  one,  so  perverted 
that,  were  he  the  member  of  a  small  and  simple 
community,  he  would  be  content  to  forgo  his 
natural  right  to  be  a  full  member  thereof.  There 
is  no  one,  or  hardly  any  one,  who  would  not  feel 
his  exclusion  from  such  rights,  among  men  of  his 
own  blood,  to  be  intolerable.  But  while  every 
one  admits  the  democratic  ideal,  most  men  who 
think  and  nearly  all  the  wiser  of  those  who 
think,  perceive  its  one  great  obstacle  to  lie  in 
the  contrast  between  the  idea  and  the  action 
where  the  obstacle  of  complexity — whether  due 
to  varied  interests,  to  separate  origins,  or  even  to 
mere  numbers — is  present. 

The  psychology  of  the  multitude  is  not  the 
psychology  of  the  individual.  Ask  every  man  in 
West  Sussex  separately  whether  he  would  have 
bread  made  artificially  dearer  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  you  will  get  an  overwhelming  majority 
against  such  economic  action  on  the  part  of  the 
State.  Treat  them  collectively,  and  they  will 
elect — I  bargain  they  will  elect  for  years  to  come 
— men  pledged  to  such  an  action.  Or  again, 
look  at  a  crowd  when  it  roars  down  a  street  in 
anger — the  sight  is  unfortunately  only  too  rare 
to-day — you  have  the  impression  of  a  beast 
majestic  in  its  courage,  terrible  in  its  ferocity, 
but  with  something  evil  about  its  cruelty  and 
determination.  Yet  if  you  stop  and  consider  the 
160 


A  Force  in  Gaul 

face  of  one  of  its  members  straggling  on  one  of 
its  outer  edges,  you  will  probably  see  the  be- 
wildered face  of  a  poor,  uncertain,  weak-mouthed 
man  whose  eyes  are  roving  from  one  object  to 
another,  and  who  appears  all  the  weaker  because 
he  is  under  the  influence  of  this  collective  domi- 
nation. Or  again,  consider  the  jokes  which  make 
a  great  public  assembly  honestly  shake  with 
laughter,  and  imagine  those  jokes  attempted  in 
a  private  room !  Our  tricky  politicians  know 
well  this  difference  between  the  psychologies  of 
the  individual  and  of  the  multitude.  The 
cleverest  of  them  often  suffer  in  reputation  pre- 
cisely because  they  know  what  hopeless  argu- 
ments and  what  still  more  hopeless  jests  will 
move  collectivities,  the  individual  units  of  which 
would  never  have  listened  to  such  humour  or  to 
such  reasoning. 

The  larger  the  community  with  which  one  is 
dealing,  the  truer  this  is  ;  so  that,  when  it  comes 
to  many  millions  spread  upon  a  large  territory, 
one  may  well  despair  of  any  machinery  which 
shall  give  expression  to  that  very  real  thing  which 
Rousseau  called  the  General  Will. 

In  the  presence  of  such  a  difficulty  most  men 
who  are  concerned  both  for  the  good  of  their 
country  and  for  the  general  order  of  society 
incline,  especially  as  they  grow  older,  to  one  or 
other  of  the  old  traditional  organic  methods 
ii  161 


On  Something 

by  which  a  State  may  be  expressed  and  con- 
trolled. They  incline  to  an  oligarchy  such  as  is 
here  in  England  where  a  small  group  of  families, 
intermarried  one  with  the  other,  dining  together 
perpetually  and  perpetually  guests  in  each  other's 
houses,  are  by  a  tacit  agreement  with  the  popu- 
lace permitted  to  direct  a  nation.  Or  they 
incline  to  the  old-fashioned  and  very  stable 
device  of  a  despotic  bureaucracy  such  as  manages 
to  keep  Prussia  upright,  and  did  until  recently 
support  the  expansion  of  Russia. 

The  evils  of  such  a  compromise  with  a  political 
idea  are  evident  enough.  The  oligarchy  will  be 
luxurious  and  corporately  corrupt,  and  individually 
somewhat  despicable,  with  a  sort  of  softness 
about  it  in  morals  and  in  military  affairs.  The 
despot  or  the  bureaucracy  will  be  individually 
corrupt,  especially  in  the  lower  branches  of  the 
system,  and  hatefully  unfeeling. 

"  But,"  (says  your  thinker,  especially  as  he 
advances  in  age)  "  man  is  so  made  that  he  cannot 
otherwise  be  collectively  governed.  He  cannot 
collectively  be  the  master,  or  at  any  rate  per- 
manently the  master  of  his  collective  destiny, 
whatever  power  his  reason  and  free  will  give 
him  over  his  individual  fate.  The  nation " 
(says  he),  "  especially  the  large  nation,  certainly 
has  a  Will,  but  it  cannot  directly  express  that 
Will.  And  if  it  attempts  to  do  so,  whatever 
162 


A  Force  in  Gaul 

machinery  it  chooses — even  the  referendum — 
will  but  create  a  gross  mechanical  parody  of  that 
subtle  organic  thing,  the  National  soul.  The 
oligarchy  or  the  bureaucracy  "  (he  will  maintain, 
and  usually  maintain  justly)  "  inherit,,  convey,  and 
maintain  the  national  spirit  more  truly  than 
would  an  attempted  democratic  system." 

General  history,  even  the  general  history  of 
Western  Europe,  is  upon  the  whole  on  the  side 
of  such  a  criticism.  Andorra  is  a  perfect 
democracy,  and  has  been  a  perfect  democracy 
for  at  least  a  thousand  years,  perhaps  since  first 
men  inhabited  that  isolated  valley.  But  there  is 
no  great  State  which  has  maintained  even  for 
three  generations  a  democratic  system  un- 
disturbed. 

Now  it  is  peculiar  to  the  French  among  the 
great  and  independent  nations,  that  they  are 
capable,  by  some  freak  in  their  development,  of 
rapid  communal  self-expression.  It  is,  I  repeat, 
only  in  crises  that  this  power  appears.  But  such 
as  it  is,  it  plays  a  part  much  more  real  and  much 
more  expressive  of  the  collective  will  than  does 
the  more  ordinary  organization  of  other  peoples. 

Those  who  attacked  the  Tuileries  upon  the 
10th  of  August  acted  in  a  manner  entirely 
spontaneous,  and  succeeded.  The  arrest  of  the 
Royal  Family  at  Varennes  was  not  the  action  of 
one  individual  or  of  two  ;  it  was  not  Drouet  nor 
163 


On  Something 

was  it  the  Saulce  family.  It  was  a  great  number 
of  individuals  (the  King  had  been  recognized  all 
along  the  journey),  each  thinking  the  same  thing 
under  the  tension  of  a  particular  episode,  each 
vaguely  tending  to  one  kind  of  action  and  tend- 
ing with  increasing  energy  towards  that  action, 
and  all  combining,  as  it  were,  upon  that  culminat- 
ing point  in  the  long  journey  which  was  reached 
at  the  archway  of  the  little  town  in  Argonne. 

To  have  expressed  and  portrayed  this  common 
national  power  has  been  the  saving  of  the 
principal  French  historians,  notably  of  Michelet. 
It  has  furnished  them  with  the  key  by  which 
alone  the  history  of  their  country  could  be 
made  plain.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  ridicule 
or  deny  so  mystical  a  thing.  Taine,  by  tempera- 
ment intensely  anti-national,  ridiculed  it  as 
he  ridiculed  the  mysteries  of  the  Faith ;  but 
with  this  consequence,  that  his  denial  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  write  the  history  of  his 
country,  and  compelled  him  throughout  his  work, 
but  especially  in  his  history  of  the  Revolution, 
to  perpetual,  and  at  last  to  somewhat  crude, 
forms  of  falsehood. 

Not  to  recognize  this  National  force  has,  again, 
led  men  into  another  error:  they  will  have  it 
that  the  great  common  actions  of  Frenchmen  are 
due  to  some  occult  force  or  to  a  master.  They 
will  explain  the  Crusades  by  the  cunning  organiza- 
164 


A  Force  in  Gaul 

tion  of  the  Papacy ;  the  French  Revolution  by 
the  cunning  organization  of  the  Masonic  lodges  ; 
the  Napoleonic  episode  by  the  individual  cunning 
and  plan  of  Bonaparte.  Such  explanations  are 
peurile. 

The  blow  of  1870  was  perhaps  the  most  severe 
which  any  modern  nation  has  endured.  By  some 
accident  it  did  not  terminate  the  activity  of  the 
French  nation.  The  Southern  States  of  America 
remain  under  the  effect  of  the  Civil  War.  All 
that  is  not  Prussian  in  C  ermany  remains  prostrate 
— especially  in  ideas — under  the  effect  of  the 
Prussian  victory  over  it.  The  French  but  barely 
escaped  a  similarly  permanent  dissolution  of 
national  character :  but  they  did  escape  it ;  and 
the  national  mark,  the  power  of  spontaneous 
and  collective  action,  after  a  few  years'  check, 
began  to  emerge. 

Upon  two  occasions  an  attempt  was  made 
towards  such  action.  The  first  was  in  the  time 
of  Boulanger,  the  second  during  the  Dreyfus 
business.  In  both  cases  the  nation  instinctively 
saw,  or  rather  felt,  its  enemy.  In  both  there 
was  a  moment  when  the  cosmopolitan  financier 
stood  in  physical  peril  of  his  life.  Neither,  how- 
ever, matured ;  in  neither  did  the  people  finally 
move. 

Latterly  several  partial  risings  have  marked 
French  life.  Why  none  of  them  should  have 
165 


On  Something 

culminated  I  will  consider  in  a  moment.  Mean- 
while, the  foreign  observer*  will  do  well  to  note 
the  character  of  these  movements,,  abortive 
though  they  were.  It  is  like  standing  upon 
the  edge  of  a  crater  and  watching  the  heave 
and  swell  of  the  vast  energies  below.  There 
may  have  been  no  actual  eruption  for  some  time, 
but  the  activities  of  the  volcano  and  its  nature 
are  certain  to  you  as  you  gaze.  The  few  days 
that  passed  two  years  ago  in  Herault  are  an 
example. 

No  one  who  is  concerned  for  the  immediate 
future  of  Europe  should  neglect  the  omen  :  half 
a  million  men,  with  leaders  chosen  rapidly  by 
themselves,  converging  without  disaster,  with 
ample  commissariat,  with  precision  and  rapidity 
upon  one  spot :  a  common  action  decided  upon, 
and  that  action  most  calculated  to  defeat  the 
enemy ;  decided  upon  by  men  of  no  exceptional 
power,  mere  mouthpieces  of  this  vast  concourse  : 
similar  and  exactly  parallel  decisions  over  the 
whole  countryside  from  the  great  towns  to  the 
tiny  mountain  villages.  It  is  the  spirit  of  a 
swarm  of  bees.  One  incident  in  the  affair  was 
the  most  characteristic  of  it  all :  fearing  they 
would  be  ordered  to  fire  on  men  of  their  own 
district  the  private  soldiers  and  corporals  of  the 
17th  of  the  Line  mutinied.  So  far  so  good  : 
mutinies  are  common  in  all  actively  military 
166 


A  Force  in  Gaul 

states — the  exceptional  thing  was  what  followed. 
The  men  organized  themselves  without  a  single 
officer  or  non-commissioned  officer,  equipped 
themselves  for  a  full  day's  march  to  the  capital 
of  the  province,  achieved  it  in  good  order,  and 
took  quarters  in  the  town.  All  that  exact  move- 
ment was  spontaneous.  It  explains  the  Marshals 
of  the  Empire.  These  were  sent  off  as  a  punish- 
ment to  the  edge  of  the  African  desert ;  the 
mutiny  seemed  to  the  moneydealers  a  proof  of 
military  defeat.  They  erred :  these  young  men, 
some  of  them  of  but  six  months'  training,  none 
of  them  of  much  more  than  two  years,  not  one 
of  them  over  twenty-five  years  of  age,  were  a 
precise  symbol  of  the  power  which  made  the 
Revolution  and  its  victims.  The  reappearance 
of  that  power  in  our  tranquil  modern  affairs 
seems  to  me  of  capital  importance. 

One  should  end  by  asking  one's  self,  "  Will 
these  unfinished  movements  breed  a  finished 
movement  at  last  ?  Will  Gaul  move  to  some 
final  purpose  in  our  time,  and  if  so,  against  what, 
with  what  an  object  and  in  what  a  manner? 

Prophecy  is  vain,  but  it  is  entertaining,  and 
I  will  prophesy  that  Gaul  will  move  in  our  time, 
and  that  the  movement  will  be  directed  against 
the  pestilent  humbug  of  the  parliamentary  system. 

For  forty  years  this  force  in  the  nation  of  which 
I  speak,  though  so  frequently  stirred,  has  not 
167 


On  Something 

achieved  its  purpose.  But  in  nearly  every  case, 
directly  or  indirectly,  the  thing  against  which  it 
moved  was  the  Parliament.  It  would  be  too 
lengthy  a  matter  to  discuss  here  why  the  repre- 
sentative system  has  sunk  to  be  what  it  is  in 
modern  Europe.  It  was  the  glory  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  it  was  a  great  vital  institution  of  Christen- 
dom, sprung  from  the  monastic  institution  that 
preceded  it,  a  true  and  living  power  first  in 
Spain,  where  Christendom  was  at  its  most  acute 
activity  in  the  struggle  against  Asia,  then  in  the 
north-west,  in  England  and  in  France.  And 
indeed,  in  one  form  or  another,  throughout  all 
the  old  limits  of  the  Empire.  It  died,  its  fossil 
was  preserved  in  one  or  two  small  and  obscure 
communities,  its  ancient  rules  and  form  were  cap- 
tured by  the  English  squires  and  merchants,  and 
it  was  maintained,  a  curious  but  vigorous  survival, 
in  this  country.  When  the  Revolution  in  1789 
began  the  revival  of  democracy  in  the  great 
nations  the  old  representative  scheme  of  the 
French,  a  very  perfect  one,  was  artificially  resur- 
rected, based  upon  the  old  doctrine  of  universal 
suffrage  and  upon  a  direct  mandate.  It  was 
logical,  it  ought  to  have  worked,  but  in  barely  a 
hundred  years  it  has  failed. 

There  is  an  instructive  little  anecdote  upon 
the  occupation  of  Rome  in  1870. 

When  the  French  garrison  was  withdrawn  and 
1 68 


A  Force  in  Gaul 

the  Northern  Italians  had  occupied  the  city,  re- 
presentative machinery  was  set  to  work,  nomi- 
nally to  discover  whether  the  change  in  Govern- 
ment were  popular  or  no.  A  tiny  handful  of 
votes  was  recorded  in  the  negative,  let  us  say 
forty-three. 

Later,  in  the  early  winter  of  that  same  year,  a 
great  festival  of  the  Church  was  celebrated  in  the 
Basilica  of  St.  Peter  and  at  the  tombs  of  the 
Apostles.  The  huge  church  was  crowded,  many 
were  even  pressed  outside  the  doors.  When  the 
ceremony  was  over  the  dense  mass  that  streamed 
out  into  the  darkness  took  up  the  cry,  the  irony 
of  which  filled  the  night  air  of  the  Trastevere 
and  its  slums  of  sovereign  citizens.  The  cry  was 
this  : 

"  We  are  the  Forty-three  !  " 

It  is  an  anecdote  that  applies  continually  to 
the  modern  representative  system  in  every 
country  which  has  the  misfortune  to  support 
it.  No  one  needs  to  be  reminded  of  such  a 
truth.  We  know  in  England  how  the  one  strong 
feeling  in  the  elections  of  1906  was  the  desire  to 
get  at  the  South  African  Jews  and  sweep  away 
their  Chinese  labour  from  under  them. 

The  politicians  and  the  party  hacks  put  into 

power    by    that     popular    determination    went 

straight  to  the  South  African  Jews,  hat  in  hand, 

asked  them  what  was  their  good  pleasure  in  the 

169 


On  Something 

matter,  and  framed  a  scheme  in  connivance  with 
them,  by  which  no  vengeance  should  be  taken 
and  not  a  penny  of  theirs  should  be  imperilled. 

In  modern  France  the  chances  of  escape  from 
the  parliamentary  game,  tawdry  at  its  best,  at  its 
worst  a  social  peril,  are  much  greater  than  in  this 
country.  The  names  and  forms  of  the  thing  are 
not  of  ancient  institution.  There  is  therefore  no 
opportunity  for  bamboozling  people  with  a  sham 
continuity,  or  of  mixing  up  the  interests  of  the 
party  hacks  with  the  instinct  of  patriotism. 
Moreover,  in  modern  France  the  parliamentary 
system  happened  to  come  up  vitally  against  the 
domestic  habits  of  the  people  earlier  and  more 
violently  than  it  has  yet  done  in  this  country. 
The  little  gang  which  had  captured  the  machine 
was  violently  anti-Christian  ;  it  proceeded  step  by 
step  to  the  destruction  of  the  Church,  until  at 
the  end  of  1905  the  crisis  had  taken  this  form. 
The  Church  was  disestablished,  its  endowments 
were  cancelled,  the  housing  of  its  hierarchy,  its 
churches  and  its  cathedrals  and  their  furniture 
were,  further,  to  be  taken  from  it  unless  it  adopted 
a  Presbyterian  form  of  government  which  could 
not  but  have  cankered  it  and  which  was  the  very 
negative  of  its  spirit.  So  far  nothing  that  the 
Parliament  had  done  really  touched  the  lives  of 
the  people.  Even  the  proposal  to  put  the  re- 
maining goods  of  the  Church  under  Presbyterian 


A   Force  in  Gaul 

management  was  a  matter  for  the  theologians 
and  not  for  them.  Not  one  man  in  a  hundred 
knew  or  cared  about  the  business.  The  critical 
date  approached  (the  llth  of  December,  if  I  re- 
member rightly).  Rome  was  to  accept  the  anti- 
Catholic  scheme  of  government  or  all  the  churches 
were  to  be  shut.  Rome  refused  the  scheme,  and 
Parliament,  faced  for  once  with  a  reality  and 
brought  under  the  necessity  of  really  interfering, 
with  the  popular  life  or  of  capitulating,  capitu- 
lated. 

What  has  that  example  to  do,  you  may  ask, 
with  that  movement  in  the  south  of  France, 
which  is  the  text  of  these  pages  ?  The  answer 
is  as  follows  : 

In  the  south  of  France  the  one  main  thing 
actually  touching  the  lives  of  the  people,  after 
their  religion  (which  the  complete  breakdown  of 
the  anti-clerical  threat  had  secured),  was  the  sale 
of  their  principal  manufacture.  This  sale  was 
rendered  difficult  from  a  number  of  reasons,  one 
of  which,  perhaps  not  the  chief,  but  the  most 
apparent  and  the  most  easily  remediable,  was  the 
adulteration  and  fraud  existing  in  the  trade. 
Such  adulteration  and  fraud  are  common  to  all 
the  trade  of  our  own  time.  It  was  winked  at  by 
the  gang  in  power  in  France,  just  as  similar  dirty 
work  is  winked  at  by  the  gang  in  power  in  every 
other  parliamentary  country.  When  the  peasants 
171 


On  Something 

who  had  suffered  so  severely  by  this  commercial 
corruption  of  our  time  asked  that  it  should  be 
put  a  stop  to,  the  old  reply,  which  has  done  duty 
half  a  million  times  in  every  case  of  corruption 
in  France,  England,  or  America  for  a  generation, 
was  given  to  them  :  "  If  you  desire  a  policy  to  be 
effected,  elect  men  who  will  effect  it."  As  a  fact, 
these  four  departments  had  elected  a  group  of 
men,  of  whom  Laferre,  the  Grand  Master  of  the 
Freemasons,  is  a  good  type,  with  his  absorbing 
interest  in  the  destruction  of  Christianity,  and 
his  ignorance  and  ineptitude  in  any  other  field 
than  that  of  theology. 

The  peasants  replied  to  this  sophistry,  which 
had  done  duty  so  often  and  had  been  successful 
so  often  in  their  case  as  in  others,  by  calling  upon 
their  Deputies  to  resign.  Laferre  neglected  to 
do  so.  He  was  too  greatly  occupied  with  his 
opportunity.  He  went  down  to  "address  his 
constituents."  They  chased  him  for  miles.  And 
in  that  exhilarating  episode  it  was  apparent  that 
the  peasants  of  the  Aude  had  discovered  in  their 
simple  fashion  both  where  the  representative 
system  was  at  fault  and  by  what  methods  it  may 
be  remedied. 


172 


On  Bridges      ^>       ^>       ^^       ^x       -o 

OTAND  on  the  side  of  a  stream  and  consider 
.  two  things :  the  innbecility  of  your  private 
nature  and  the  genius  of  your  common  kind. 

For  you  cannot  cross  the  stream,  you — Indi- 
vidual you  ;  but  Man  (from  whence  you  come)  has 
found  out  an  art  for  crossing  it.  This  art  is  the 
building  of  bridges.  And  hence  man  in  the 
general  may  properly  be  called  Pontifex,  or 
"  The  Bridge  Builder  "  ;  and  his  symbolic  summits 
of  office  will  carry  some  such  title. 

Here  I  will  confess  (Individual)  that  I  am 
tempted  to  leave  you  by  the  side  of  the  stream, 
to  swim  it  if  you  can,  to  drown  if  you  can't,  or  to 
go  back  home  and  be  eaten  out  with  your  desire 
for  the  ulterior  shore,  while  I  digress  upon  that 
word  Pontifex,  which,  note  you,  is  not  only  a 
name  over  a  shop  as  "  Henry  Pontifex,  Italian 
Warehouseman,"  or  "Pontifex  Brothers,  Bar- 
bers," but  a  true  key-word  breeding  ideas  and 
making  one  consider  the  greatness  of  man,  or 
rather  the  greatness  of  what  made  him. 

For  man  builds  bridges  over  streams,  and  he 
has  built  bridges  more  or  less  stable  between 
173 


On  Something 

mind  and  mind  (a  difficult  art !),  having  designed 
letters  for  that  purpose,  which  are  his  instrument ; 
and  man  builds  by  prayer  a  bridge  between  him- 
self and  God  ;  man  also  builds  bridges  which 
unite  him  with  Beauty  all  about. 

Thus  he  paints  and  draws  and  makes  statues, 
and  builds  for  beauty  as  well  as  for  shelter  from 
the  weather.  And  man  builds  bridges  between 
knowledge  and  knowledge,  co-ordinating  one 
thing  that  he  knows  with  another  thing  that  he 
knows,  and  putting  a  bridge  from  each  to  each. 
And  man  is  for  ever  building — but  he  has  never 
yet  completed,  nor  ever  will — that  bridge  they 
call  philosophy,  which  is  to  explain  himself  in 
relation  to  that  whence  he  came.  I  say,  when  his 
skeleton  is  put  in  the  Museum  properly  labelled, 
it  shall  be  labelled  not  Homo  Sapiens,  but  Homo 
Ponlifex  ;  hence  also  the  anthem,  or  rather  the 
choral  response,  "  Pontificem  habemus,"  which  is 
sung  so  nobly  by  pontifical  great  choirs,  when 
pontifications  are  pontificated,  as  behooves  the 
court  of  a  Pontiff. 

Nevertheless  (Individual)  I  will  not  leave  you 
there,  for  I  have  pity  on  you,  and  I  will 
explain  to  you  the  nature  of  bridges.  By  a 
bridge  was  man's  first  worry  overcome.  For  note 
you,  there  is  no  worry  so  considerable  as  to  wail 
by  impassable  streams  (as  Swinburne  has  it).  It 
is  the  proper  occupation  of  the  less  fortunate  dead 
174 


On  Bridges 

Believe  me,  without  bridges  the  world  would 
be  very  different  to  you.  You  take  them  for 
granted,  you  lollop  along  the  road,  you  cross  a 
bridge.  You  may  be  so  ungrateful  as  to  forget 
all  about  it,  but  it  is  an  awful  thing ! 

A  bridge  is  a  violation  of  the  will  of  nature 
and  a  challenge.  "You  desired  me  not  to  cross," 
says  man  to  the  River  God,  "but  I  will."  And 
he  does  so :  not  easily.  The  god  had  never 
objected  to  him  that  he  should  swim  and  wet 
himself.  Nay,  when  he  was  swimming  the  god 
could  drown  him  at  will,  but  to  bridge  the 
stream,  nay,  to  insult  it,  to  leap  over  it,  that  was 
man  all  over ;  in  a  way  he  knows  that  the  earthy 
gods  are  less  than  himself  and  that  all  that  he 
dreads  is  his  inferior,  for  only  that  which  he 
reveres  and  loves  can  properly  claim  his  alle- 
giance. Nor  does  he  in  the  long  run  pay  that 
allegiance  save  to  holiness,  or  in  a  lesser  way  to 
valour  and  to  worth. 

Man  cannot  build  bridges  everywhere.  They 
are  not  multitudinous  as  are  his  roads,  nor 
universal  as  are  his  pastures  and  his  tillage.  He 
builds  from  time  to  time  in  one  rare  place  and 
another,  and  the  bridge  always  remains  a  sacred 
thing.  Moreover,  the  bridge  is  always  in  peril. 
The  little  bridge  at  Paris  which  carried  the 
Roman  road  to  the  island  was  swept  away  con- 
tinually ;  and  the  bridge  of  Staines  that  carried 
175 


On  Something 

the  Roman  road  from  the  great  port  to  London 
was  utterly  destroyed. 

Bridges  have  always  lived  with  fear  in  their 
hearts ;  and  if  you  think  this  is  only  true  of  old 
bridges  (Individual),  have  you  forgotten  the  Tay 
Bridge  with  the  train  upon  it?  Or  the  bridge 
that  they  were  building  over  the  St.  Lawrence 
some  little  time  ago,  or  the  bridge  across  the 
Loire  where  those  peasants  went  to  their  death 
on  a  Sunday  only  a  few  months  since  ?  Carefully 
consider  these  things  and  remember  that  the 
building  and  the  sustaining  of  a  bridge  is  always 
a  wonderful  and  therefore  a  perilous  thing. 

No  bridges  more  testify  to  the  soul  of  man 
than  the  bridges  that  leap  in  one  arch  from 
height  to  height  over  the  gorge  of  a  torrent. 
Many  of  these  are  called  the  Devil's  Bridges 
with  good  reason,  for  they  suggest  art  beyond 
man's  power,  and  there  are  two  to  be  crossed  and 
wondered  at,  one  in  Wales  in  the  mountains, 
and  another  in  Switzerland,  also  in  the  moun- 
tains. There  is  a  third  in  the  mountains  at  the 
gate  of  the  Sahara,  of  the  same  sort,  jumping 
from  rock  to  rock.  But  it  is  not  called  the 
Devil's  Bridge.  It  is  called  with  Semitic  sim- 
plicity "El  Kantara,"  and  that  is  the  name  the 
Arabs  gave  to  the  old  bridges,  to  the  lordly 
bridges  of  the  Romans,  wherever  they  came 
across  them,  for  the  Arabs  were  as  incapable  of 
176 


On   Bridges 

making  bridges  as  they  were  of  doing  anything 
else  except  singing  love  songs  and  riding  about 
on  horses.  "Alcantara"  is  a  name  all  over 
Spain,  and  it  is  in  the  heart  of  the  capital  of 
Portugal,  and  it  is  fixed  in  the  wilds  of  Estrema- 
dura.  You  get  it  outside  Constantine  also  where 
the  bridge  spans  the  gulf.  Never  did  an  Arab 
see  bridges  but  he  wondered. 

Our  people  also,  though  they  were  not  of  the 
sort  to  stand  with  their  mouths  open  in  front  of 
bridges  or  anything  else,  felt  the  mystery  of 
these  things.  And  they  put  chapels  in  the 
middle  of  them,  as  you  may  see  at  Bale,  and  at 
Bradford-upon-Avon,  and  especially  was  there 
one  upon  old  London  Bridge,  which  was  dedi- 
cated to  St.  Thomas  a  Becket,  and  was  very 
large.  And  speaking  of  old  London  Bridge, 
every  one  in  London  should  revere  bridges,  for  a 
great  number  of  reasons. 

In  the  first  place  London  never  would  have 
been  London  but  for  London  Bridge. 

In  the  second  place,  bridges  enable  the  people 
of  London  to  visit  the  south  of  the  river,  which 
is  full  of  pleasing  and  extraordinary  sights,  and 
in  which  may  be  seen,  visibly  present  to  the  eye, 
Democracy.  If  any  one  doubts  this  let  him  take 
the  voyage. 

Then  again,  but  for  bridges  Londoners  could 
not  see  the  river  except  from  the  Embankment, 

12  177 


On  Something 

which  is  an  empty  sort  of  place,  or  from  the 
windows  of  hotels.  Bridges  also  permit  railways 
from  the  south  to  enter  London.  If  this  seems 
to  you  a  commonplace,  visit  New  York  or  for 
ever  after  hold  your  peace. 

All  things  have  been  degraded  in  our  time  and 
have  also  been  multiplied,  which  is  perhaps  a 
condition  of  degradation  ;  and  your  simple  thing, 
your  bridge,  has  suffered  with  the  rest.  Men 
have  invented  all  manner  of  bridges :  tubular 
bridges,  suspension  bridges,  cantilever  bridges, 
swing  bridges,  pontoon  bridges,  and  the  bridge 
called  the  Russian  Bridge,  which  is  intolerable ; 
but  they  have  not  been  able  to  do  with  the 
bridge  what  they  have  done  with  some  other 
tilings :  they  have  not  been  able  to  destroy 
it ;  it  is  still  a  bridge,  still  perilous,  and  still 
a  triumph.  The  bridge  still  remains  the  thing 
which  may  go  at  any.  moment  and  yet  the 
thing  which,  when  it  remains,  remains  our  oldest 
monument.  There  is  a  bridge  over  the  Euphrates 
— I  forget  whether  it  goes  all  the  way  across — 
which  the  Romans  built.  And  the  oldest  thing 
in  the  way  of  bridges  in  the  town  of  Paris,  a 
thing  three  hundred  years  old,  was  the  bridge 
that  stood  the  late  floods  best.  The  bridge  will 
remain  a  symbol  in  spite  of  the  engineers. 

Look  how  differently  men  have  treated  bridges 
according  to  the  passing  mood  of  civilization. 
178 


On  Bridges 

Once  they  thought  it  reasonable  to  tax  people 
who  crossed  bridges.  Now  they  think  it  un- 
reasonable. Yet  the  one  course  was  as  reason- 
able as  the  other.  Once  they  built  houses  on 
bridges,  clearly  perceiving  that  there  was  lack  of 
room  for  houses,  and  that  there  was  a  housing 
problem,  and  that  the  bridges  gave  a  splendid 
chance.  Now  no  one  dares  to  build  a  house  upon 
a  bridge,  and  the  one  proceeding  is  as  reasonable 
as  the  other. 

The  time  has  come  to  talk  at  random  about 
bridges. 

The  ugliest  bridge  in  the  world  runs  from 
Lambeth  to  the  Horseferry  Road,  and  takes  the 
place  of  the  old  British  trackway  which  here 
crossed  the  Thames.  About  the  middle  of  it,  if 
you  will  grope  in  the  mud,  you  may  or  may  not 
find  the  great  Seal  of  England  which  James  II 
there  cast  into  the  flood.  If  it  was  fished  up 
again,  why  then  it  is  not  there.  The  most  beauti- 
ful bridge  in  London  is  Waterloo  Bridge ;  the 
most  historic  is  London  Bridge ;  and  far  the 
most  useful  Westminster  Bridge.  The  most 
famous  bridge  in  Italy  to  tourists  is  the  old  bridge 
at  Florence,  and  the  best  known  from  pictures 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs  in  Venice.  That  with  the 
best  chance  of  an  eternal  fame  is  the  bridge 
which  carries  the  road  from  Tizzano  to  Serchia 
over  the  gully  of  the  muddy  Apennines,  for 
179 


On  Something 

upon  the  18th  of  June,  1901,  it  was  broken  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  very  nearly  cost 
the  life  of  a  man  who  could  ill  afford  it.  The 
place  where  a  bridge  is  most  needed,  and  is  not 
present,  is  the  Ford  of  Fornovo.  The  place 
where  there  is  most  bridge  and  where  it  is  least 
needed  is  the  railway  bridge  at  Venice.  The 
bridge  that  trembles  most  is  the  Bridge  of 
Piacenza.  The  bridge  that  frightens  you  most 
is  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  and  the  bridge  that 
frightens  you  least  is  the  bridge  in  St.  James's 
Park ;  for  even  if  you  are  terrified  by  water  in 
every  form,  as  are  too  many  boastful  men,  you 
must  know,  or  can  be  told,  that  there  is  but  a 
dampness  of  some  inches  in  the  sheet  below. 
The  longest  bridge  for  boring  one  is  the  railway 
bridge  across  the  Somme  to  St.  Valery,  whence 
Duke  William  started  with  a  horseshoe  mouth 
and  very  glum  upon  his  doubtful  adventure  to  in- 
vade these  shores — but  there  was  no  bridge  in 
his  time.  The  shortest  bridge  is  made  of  a  plank, 
in  the  village  of  Loudwater  in  the  county  of 
Bucks,  not  far  from  those  Chiltern  Hundreds 
which  men  take  in  Parliament  for  the  good  of 
their  health  as  a  man  might  take  the  waters. 
The  most  entertaining  bridge  is  the  Tower  Bridge, 
which  lifts  up  and  splits  into  two  just  as  you  are 
beginning  to  cross  it,  as  can  be  testified  by  a 
cloud  of  witnesses.  The  broadest  bridge  is  the 
1 80 


On  Bridges 

Alexandra  III  Bridge  in  Paris,  at  least  it  looks 
the  broadest,,  while  the  narrowest  bridge,  without 
a  shadow  of  doubt,  is  the  bridge  that  was  built 
by  ants  in  the  moon ;  if  the  phrase  startles  you 
remember  it  is  only  in  a  novel  by  Wells. 

The  first  elliptical  bridge  was  designed  by 
a  monk  of  Cortona,  and  the  first  round  one  by 
Adam.  .  .  . 

But  one  might  go  on  indefinitely  about  bridges 
and  I  am  heartily  tired  of  them,  Let  them 
cross  and  recross  the  streams  of  the  world.  I 
for  my  part  will  stay  upon  my  own  side. 


181 


A  Blue  Book    ^> 

T  HAVE  thought  it  of  some  value  to  contem- 
•*•  porary  history  to  preserve  the  following  docu- 
ment, which  concerns  the  discovery  and  survey 
of  an  island  in  the  North  Atlantic,  which  upon 
its  discovery  was  annexed  by  the  United  States 
in  the  first  moments  of  their  imperial  expansion, 
and  was  given  the  name  of  "  Atlantis." 

The  island,  which  appears  to  have  been  formed 
by  some  convulsion  of  nature,  disappeared  the 
year  after  its  discovery,  and  the  report  drawn  up 
by  the  Commissioners  is  therefore  very  little 
known,  and  has  of  course  no  importance  in  the 
field  of  practical  finance  and  administration.  But 
it  is  a  document  of  the  highest  and  most  curious 
interest  as  an  example  of  the  ideas  that  guided 
the  policy  of  the  Great  Republic  at  the  moment 
when  the  survey  was  undertaken ;  and  English 
readers  in  particular  will  be  pleased  to  note  the 
development  and  expansion  of  English  methods 
and  of  characteristic  English  points  of  view  and 
institutions  throughout  the  whole  document. 

Any  one  who  desires  to  consult  the  maps,  etc., 
which  I  have  been  unable  to  reproduce  in  this 
182 


A  Blue  Book 

little  volume,  must  refer  to  the  Record  Office  at 
Washington.  My  only  purpose  in  reprinting 
these  really  fascinating  pages  in  such  a  volume 
as  this  is  the  hope  that  they  may  give  pleasure 
to  many  who  would  not  have  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  consult  them  in  the  public  archives 
where  they  have  hitherto  been  buried. 

A.  2.  E.  331  ff. 
REPORT 

OF  THE  THREE  COMMISSIONERS  APPOINTED 
BY  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 
TO  REPORT  UPON  THE  POTENTIAL  RE- 
SOURCES, SITUATION,  ETC.,  OF  THE  NEW 
ISLAND  KNOWN  AS  "ATLANTIS,"  RE- 
CENTLY DISCOVERED  IN  THE  NORTH 
ATLANTIC  AND  ANNEXED  TO  THE  RE- 
PUBLIC, TOGETHER  WITH  A  RECOMMEN- 
DATION ON  FUTURE  TREATMENT  OF 
SAME. 

To  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 
YOUR  HONOUR, 

Your  Honour's  three  Commissioners,  Joshua 

Hogg,  Abraham  Bush  and  Jack  Bimber,  being  of 

sound  mind,  solvent,  and  in  good  cor- 

Preamble.     poreal  health,  all  citizens  of  more  than 

five   years'    standing,    and    domiciled 

within  the  boundaries,  frontiers  or  terms  of  the 

Republic,  do  make  oath  and  say,  So  Help  Them 

God:— 

I.  That  on  the    20th  of  the  month  of  July, 
183 


On  Something 

being  at  that  time  in  or  about  Latitude  45  N. 
and  betwixt  and  between  Longitude  51  W.  and 
51.10°  W.,  so  near  as  could  be  made  out,  the 
captain  of  the  steamboat  "  Glory  of  the  Morning 
Star"  (chartered  for  this  occasion  only  by  the 
Government  of  the  Republic,  without  any  dam- 
age, precedent  or  future  lien  whatsoever),  by 
name  James  Murphy,  of  Cork,  Ireland,  and  domi- 
ciled within  the  aforesaid  terms,  boundaries,  etc., 

did  in  a  loud  voice  at  about  4.33  a.m., 
Arrival  off  when  it  was  already  light,  cry  out 
Atlantis.  "  That's  Hur,"  or  words  to  that  effect. 

Your  three  Commissioners  being  at 
that  moment  in  the  cabin,  state-room  or  cuddy  in 
the  forward  part  of  the  ship  (see  annexed  plan), 
came  up  011  deck  and  were  ordered  or  enjoined 
to  go  below  by  those  having  authority  on  the 
"  Glory  of  the  Morning  Star."  Your  three  Com- 
missioners desire  individually  and  collectively  to 
call  attention  to  the  fact  that  this  order  was 
obeyed,  being  given  under  the  Maritime  Acts  of 
1853,  and  desire  also  to  protest  against  the  indig- 
nity offered  in  their  persons  to  the  majesty  of  the 
Republic.  (See  Attorney-General's  Plea,  Folio 
56,  M.)  At  or  about  6.30  a.m.  of  the  same  day, 
July  20th,  your  Commissioners  were  called  upon 
deck,  and  there  was  put  at  their  disposal  a  boat 
manned  by  four  sailors,  who  did  thereupon  and 
with  all  due  dispatch  row  them  towards  the 
184 


A  Blue  Book 

island,  at  that  moment  some  two  miles  off  the 
weather  bow,  that  is  S.S.W.  by  S.  of  the  "  Glory 
of  the  Morning  Star."  They  did  then  each  indi- 
vidually and  all  collectively  land,  disembark  and 
set  foot  upo'n  the  Island  of  Atlantis  and  take  pos- 
session thereof  in  the  name  of  Your  Honour  and 
the  Republic,  displaying  at  the  same  time  a  small 
flag  1 9"  x  6"  in  token  of  the  same,  which  flag  was 
distinctly  noted,  seen,  recorded  and  witnessed  by 
the  undersigned,  to  which  they  put  their  hand 
and  seal,  trusting  in  the  guidance  of  Divine 
Providence.  JOSHUA  HOGG 

ABRAHAM  BUSH 
JACK  BIMBER. 

II.   Your  Commissioners  proceeded  at  once  to 
a  measurement  of  the  aforesaid  island  of  Atlantis, 
which  they  discovered  to  be  of  a  tri- 
angular  or  three-cornered  shape,   in  Shape   and 
dimensions  as  follows  :    On  the  nor-  Dimensions 
them    face    from    Cape    Providence  of  the 
(q.v.)  to  Cape  Mercy  (q.v.),  one  mile  Island. 
one  furlong  and  a  bit.     On  the  south- 
western face   from  Cape   Mercy   (q.v.)  to  Point 
Liberty  (q.v.),  seven  furlongs,  two  roods  and  a 
foot.     On  the  south-eastern  face,  which  is  the 
shortest   face,    from    Point  Liberty  (q.v.)   round 
again  to  Cape  Providence  (q.v.),  from  which  we 
stai'ted,    something    like    half   a    mile,    and    not 


On  Something 

worth  measuring.  These  dimensions,  lines,  fig- 
ures, measurements  and  plans  they  do  submit  to 
the  public  office  of  Record  as  accurate  and  done 
to  the  best  of  their  ability  by  the  undersigned : 
So  Help  Them  God.  (SEAL.) 

III.  It  will  be  seen  from  the  above  that  the 
island   is   in  shape  an   Isosceles    triangle,    as    it 

were,  pointing  in  a  north-westerly 
Appearance  direction  and  having  a  short  base 
and  Stnic-  turned  to  the  south-east,  contains  some 
tare  of  the  170  acres  or  half  a  square  mile,  and 
Island.  is  situate  in  a  temperate  latitude 

suited  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  Race.  As  to 
material  or  structure,  it  is  composed  of  sand  (.ice  ils 
specimens  in  glass  phial),  the  said  sand  being  of  a 
yellow  colour  when  dry  and  inclining  to  a  brown 
colour  where  it  may  be  wet  by  the  sea  or  by  rain. 
Springs  IV.  There  are  no  springs  or  rivers 

and  Rivers,  in  the  Island. 

V.  There  are  no  mountains  on  the  Island,  but 

there  is  in    the  North  a   slight  hummock  some 

fifteen  feet  in  height.     To  this  hum- 

Hills  ami     mock    we    have    given    (saving   your 

Mountains.    Honour's    Reverence)    the    name    of 

"  Mount  Providence  "  in  commemora- 
tion of  the  manifold  and  evident  graces  of  Provi- 
dence in  permitting  us  to  occupy  and  develop  this 
new  land  in  the  furtherance  of  true  civilization 
and  good  government.  The  hill  is  at  present  too 
1 86 


A  Blue  Book 

small  to  make  a  feature  in  the  landscape,  but  we 
have  great  hopes  that  it  will  grow.  (See  Younger 
on  "The  Sand  Dunes  of  Picardy,"  Vol.  II,  pp. 
199-200.) 

VI.  The   Island  is  difficult  of  approach  as   it 
slopes   up    gradually    from  the    sea   bottom  and 
the  tides  are  slight.     At  high  water 

there  is  no  sounding  of  more  than  Harbours. 
three  fathoms  for  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  shore ;  but  at  a  distance  of  two  miles 
soundings  of  five  and  six  fathoms  are  common, 
and  it  would  be  feasible  in  fine  weather  for  a 
vessel  of  moderate  draught  to  land  her  cargo, 
passengers,  etc.  in  small  boats.  Moreover  a 
harbour  might  be  built  as  in  our  Recommenda- 
tions (q.v.).  There  is  on  the  northern  side  a  bay 
(caused  by  indentation  of  the  land)  which  we 
think  suitable  to  the  purpose  and  which,  in  Your 
Honour's  honour,  we  have  called  Buggins'  Bay. 

VII.  These   are  three,   as   above    enumerated 
(q.v.) ;  one,  the  most  precipitous  and  bold,  we 
have  called  Cape  Providence  (q.v.)  for 

reasons  which  appear  above ;  the  Capes  and 
second,  Cape  Mercy,  in  recognition  Headlands. 
of  the  great  mercy  shown  us  in  find- 
ing this  place  without  running  on  it  as  has  been 
the  fate  of  many  a  noble  vessel.  The  third 
we  called  Point  Liberty  from  the  nature  of  those 
glorious  institutions  which  are  the  pride  of  the 
187 


On  Something 

Republic  and  which  we  intend  to  impose  upon  any 
future  inhabitants.  These  titles,,  which  are  but 
provisional,  we  pray  may  remain  and  be  En- 
registered  under  the  seal,  notwithstanding  the 
"Act  to  Restrain  Nuisances  and  Voids  "  of  1819, 
Cap.  2. 

VIII.  The  climate  is  that  of  the  North  Atlantic 
known   as  the    "  Oceanic."      Rain  falls  not   in- 
frequently,   and   between    November 
Climate,    and  April  snow  is  not  unknown.     In 
summer   a  more   genial   temperature 
prevails,  but  it  is  never  so  hot  as  to  endanger 
life    or  to    facilitate   the    progress   of    epidemic 
disease.    Wheat,  beans,  hops,  turnips,  and  barley 
could  be  grown  did  the  soil  permit  of  it.     But  we 
cannot  regard  an  agricultural  future  as  promising 
for  the  new  territory. 

HERE  ENDETH  your  Commissioners'  Report. 

JOSHUA  HOGG. 
(Seal)         ABRAHAM  BUSH. 
JACOBUS  BIMBER. 

RECOMMENDATIONS 

Your  Commissioners  being  also  entrusted  with 
the  privilege  of  making  Recommendations,  sub- 
mit the  following  without  prejudice  and  all 
pursuants  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 

As  to  the  land  :  your  Commissioners  recommend 
that  it  should  be  held  by  the  State  in  conformity 
1 88 


A  Blue  Book 

with  those  principles  which  are  gaining  a  com- 
plete ascendancy  among  the  Leading  Nations  of 
the  Earth.  This  might  then  be  let  out  at  its  full 
value  to  private  individuals  who  would  make 
what  they  could  of  it,  leaving  the  Economic 
Rent  to  the  community.  For  the  individual  did 
not  make  the  land,  but  the  State  did. 

This  power  of  letting  the  land  should,  they 
recommend,  be  left  in  the  hands  of  a  Chartered 
Company.  Your  Commissioners  will  provide  the 
names  of  certain  reputable  and  wealthy  citizens 
who  will  be  glad  to  undertake  the  duty  of  form- 
ing and  directing  this  company,  and  who  will  act 
on  the  principle  of  unsalaried  public  service  by 
the  upper  classes,  which  is  the  chief  characteristic 
of  our  civilization.  I.  Jacobs,  Esq.,  and  Z.  Lewis, 
Esq.  (to  be  directors  of  the  proposed  Chartered 
Company)  have  already  volunteered  in  this 
matter. 

Your  Commissioners  recommend  that  the 
Chartered  Company  should  be  granted  the 
right  to  strike  coins  of  copper,  nickel,  silver 
and  gold,  the  first  three  to  be  issued  at  three 
times  eight  times  and  twice  the  value  of  the 
metals  respectively,  the  said  currency  to  be  on 
a  gold  basis  and  mono-metallic  and  not  to  exceed 
the  amount  of  $100  per  capita. 

Your  Commissioners  further  recommend  that 
the  same  authority  be  empowered  to  issue  paper 
189 


On  Something 

money  in  proportions  of  165%  to  the  gold 
reserve,  the  right  to  give  high  values  to  pieces 
of  paper  having  proved  in  the  past  of  the  greatest 
value  to  those  who  have  obtained  it. 

Your  Commissioners  recommend  the  building 
of  a  stone  harbour  out  to  sea  without  encroach- 
ing on  the  already  exiguous  dimensions  of  the 
land.  They  propose  two  piers,  each  some  mile 
and  a  half  long,  and  built  of  Portland  rock,  an 
excellent  quarry  of  which  is  to  be  discovered  on 
the  property  of  James  Barber,  Esq.,  of  Maryville, 
Kent  County,  Conn.  The  stone  could  be  brought 
to  Atlantis  at  the  lowest  rates  by  the  Wall 
Schreiner  line  of  floats.  In  this  harbour,  if  it 
be  sufficiently  deepened  and  its  piers  set  wide 
enough  apart,  the  navies  of  the  world  could  be 
contained,  and  it  would  be  a  standing  testimony 
to  the  energy  of  our  race,  "  which  maketh  the 
desert  to  blossom  like  a  rose  "  (Lev.  xxn.  3,  2). 

Your  Commissioners  also  recommend  an  artesian 
well  to  be  sunk  until  fresh  water  be  discovered. 
This  method  has  been  found  successful  in 
Australia,  which  is  also  an  island  and  largely 
composed  of  sand.  It  is  said  that  this  method 
of  irrigation  produces  astonishing  results. 

Finally,  in  the  matter  of  industry  your  Com- 
missioners propose  (not,  of  course,  as  a  unique 
industry  but  as  a  staple)  the  packing  of  sardines. 
A  sound  system  of  fair  trade  based  upon  a  tariff 
190 


A  Blue  Book 

scientifically  adjusted  to  the  conditions  of  the 
Island  should  develop  the  industry  rapidly. 
Everything  lends  itself  to  this :  the  skilled  labour 
could  be  imparted  from  home,  the  sardines  from 
France,  and  the  tin  and  oil  from  Spain.  It 
would  need  for  some  years  an  export  Bounty 
somewhat  in  the  nature  of  Protection,  the  scale 
of  which  would  have  to  be  regulated  by  the  needs 
of  the  community,  but  they  are  convinced  that 
when  once  the  industry  was  established,  the 
superior  skill  of  our  workmen  and  the  enter- 
prise of  our  capitalists  would  control  the  markets 
of  the  world. 

As  to  political  rights,  we  recommend  that 
Atlantis  should  be  treated  as  a  territory,  and 
that  a  sharp  distinction  should  be  drawn  between 
Rural  and  Urban  conditions  ;  that  the  inhabitants 
should  not  be  granted  the  franchise  till  they  have 
shown  themselves  worthy  of  self-government, 
saving,  of  course,  those  immigrants  (such  as  the 
negroes  of  Carolina,  etc.)  who  have  been  trained 
in  the  exercise  of  representative  institutions. 
All  Religions  should  be  tolerated  except  those  to 
which  the  bulk  of  the  community  show  an  im- 
placable aversion.  Education  should  be  free  to 
all,  compulsory  upon  the  poor,  non-sectarian, 
absolutely  elementary,  and  subject,  of  course,  to 
the  paramount  position  of  that  gospel  which  has 
done  so  much  for  our  dear  country.  The  sale  of 
191 


On  Something 

Intoxicants  should  be  regulated  by  the  Company, 
and  these  should  be  limited  to  a  little  spirits  : 
wine  and  beer  and  all  alcoholic  liquors  habitually 
used  as  beverages  should  be  rigorously  forbidden 
to  the  labouring  classes,  and  should  only  be 
supplied  in  bona  fide  clubs  with  a  certain  mini- 
mum yearly  subscription. 

IN  CONCLUSION  your  Commissioners  will 
ever  pray,  etc. 

MS.  note  added  at  the  end  in  the  hand  of 
Mr.  Charles  P.  Hands,  the  curator  of  this  section  : 

(The  Island  was  lost — luckily  with  no  one  aboard — 
during  the  storms  of  the  following  winter.  This 
report  still  possesses,  however,  a  strong  historical 
interest). 


192 


Perigeux  of  the  Perigord  ^       ^>       ^ 

T  KNEW  a  man  once.  I  met  him  in  a  wooden 
inn  upon  a  bitterly  cold  day.  He  was  an 
American,  and  we  talked  of  many  things.  At 
last  he  said  to  me :  "  Have  you  ever  seen  the 
Matterhorn?  " 

"No,"  said  I ;  for  I  hated  the  very  name  of  it. 
Then  he  continued  : 

"  It  is  the  most  surprising  thing  I  ever  saw." 

"By  the  Lord,"  said  I,  "you  have  found  the 
very  word ! "  I  took  out  a  sketch-book  and 
noted  his  word  "surprising."  What  admirable 
humour  had  this  American ;  how  subtle  and 
how  excellent  a  spirit !  I  have  never  seen  the 
Matterhorn ;  but  it  seems  that  one  comes  round 
a  corner,  and  there  it  is.  It  is  surprising !  Ex- 
cellent word  of  the  American.  I  never  shall 
forget  it ! 

An  elephant  escapes  from  a  circus  and  puts 
his  head  in  at  your  window  while  you  are  writing 
and  thinking  of  a  word.  You  look  up.  You  may 
be  alarmed,  you  may  be  astonished,  you  may  be 
moved  to  sudden  processes  of  thought ;  but  one 
thing  you  will  find  about  it,  and  you  will  find 
13  '93 


On  Something 

out  quite  quickly,  and  it  will  dominate  all  your 
other  emotions  of  the  time  :  the  elephant's  head 
will  be  surprising.  You  are  caught.  Your  soul 
says  loudly  to  its  Creator  :  "  Oh,  this  is  something 


new! 

So  did  I  first  see  in  the  moonlight  up  the  quite 
unknown  and  quite  deserted  valley  which  the 
peak  of  the  Dead  Man  dominates  in  a  lonely  and 
savage  manner  the  main  crest  of  the  Pyrenees. 
So  did  I  first  see  a  land-fall  when  I  first  went 
overseas.  So  did  I  first  see  the  Snowdon  range 
when  I  was  a  little  boy,  having,  until  I  woke  up 
that  morning  and  looked  out  of  the  windows  of 
the  hotel,  never  seen  anything  in  my  life  more 
uplifted  than  the  rounded  green  hills  of  South 
England. 

Now  the  cathedral  of  St.  Front  in  Perigeux 
of  the  Perigord  is  the  most  surprising  thing  in 
Europe.  It  is  much  more  surprising  than  the 
hills — for  a  man  made  it.  Man  made  it  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  years  ago  ;  man  has  added  to  it, 
and,  by  the  grace  of  his  enthusiasm  and  his  dis- 
ciplined zeal,  man  has  (thank  God !)  scraped,  re- 
modelled, and  restored  it.  Upon  my  soul,  to  see 
such  a  thing  I  was  proud  to  be  an  Anthropoid, 
and  to  claim  cousinship  with  those  dark  citizens 
of  the  Dordogne  and  of  Garonne  and  of  the  Tarn 
and  of  the  Lot,  and  of  whatever  rivers  fall  into 
the  Gironde.  I  know  very  well  that  they  have 
194 


Perigeux  of  the  Perigord 

sweated  to  indoctrinate,  to  persecute,  to  trim,  to 
improve,  to  exterminate,  to  lift  up,  to  cast  down, 
to  annoy,  to  amuse,  to  exasperate,  to  please,  to  en- 
music,  to  offend,  to  glorify  their  kind.  In  some  of 
these  energies  of  theirs  I  blame  them,  in  others  I 
praise ;  but  it  is  plainly  evident  that  they  know 
how  to  binge.  I  wished  (for  a  moment)  to  be 
altogether  of  their  race,  like  that  strong  cavalry 
man  of  their  race  to  whom  they  have  put  up  a 
statue  pointing  to  his  wooden  leg.  What  an 
incredible  people  to  build  such  an  incredible 
church ! 

The  Clericals  claim  it,  the  anti-Clericals  adorn 
it.  The  Christians  bemoan  within  it  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  times.  The  Atheists  are  baptized  in 
it,  married  in  it,  denounced  in  it,  and  when  they 
die  are,  in  great  coffins  surrounded  by  great 
candles,  to  the  dirge  of  the  Dies  Irce,  to  the 
booming  of  the  vast  new  organ,  very  formally 
and  determinedly  absolved  in  it ;  and  holy  water 
is  sprinkled  over  the  black  cloth  and  cross  of 
silver.  The  pious  and  the  indifferent,  nay,  the  sad 
little  army  of  earnest,  intelligent,  strenuous  men 
who  still  anxiously  await  the  death  of  religion 
— they  all  draw  it,  photograph  it,  paint  it ;  they 
name  their  streets,  their  hotels,  their  villages,  and 
their  very  children  after  it.  It  is  like  everything 
else  in  the  world  :  it  must  be  seen  to  be  believed. 
It  rises  up  in  a  big  cluster  of  white  domes  upon 


On  Something 

the  steep  bank  of  the  river.  And  sometimes  you 
think  it  a  fortress,  and  sometimes  you  think  it  a 
town,,  and  sometimes  you  think  it  a  vision.  It  is 
simple  in  plan  and  multiple  in  the  mind ;  and 
after  all  these  years  I  remember  it  as  one  re- 
members a  sudden  and  unexpected  chorus.  It  is 
well  worthy  of  Perigeux  of  the  Perigord. 

Perigeux  of  the  Perigord  is  Gaulish,  and  it  has 
never  died.  When  it  was  Roman  it  was  Vesona  ; 
the  temple  of  that  patron  Goddess  still  stands  at 
its  eastern  gate,  and  it  is  one  of  those  teaching 
towns  which  have  never  died,  but  in  which  you 
can  find  quite  easily  and  before  your  eyes  every 
chapter  of  our  worthy  story.  In  such  towns  I 
am  filled  as  though  by  a  book,  with  a  contem- 
plation of  what  we  have  done,  and  I  have  little 
doubt  for  our  sons. 

The  city  reclines  and  is  supported  upon  the 
steep  bank  of  the  Isle  just  where  the  stream 
bends  and  makes  an  amphitheatre,  so  that  men 
coming  in  from  the  north  (which  is  the  way  the 
city  was  meant  to  be  entered — and  therefore,  as 
you  may  properly  bet,  the  railway  comes  in  at 
the  other  side  by  the  back  door)  see  it  all  at 
once :  a  great  sight.  One  goes  up  through  its 
narrow  streets,  especially  noting  that  street 
which  is  very  nobly  called  after  the  man  who 
tossed  his  sword  in  the  air  riding  before  the 
Conqueror  at  Hastings,  Taillefer.  One  turns  a 
196 


Perigeux  of  the  Perigord 

narrow  corner  between  houses  very  old  and  very 
tall,  and  then  quite  close,  no  longer  a  vision,  but 
a  thing  to  be  touched,  you  see — to  use  the  word 
again — the  "surprising"  thing.  You  see  some- 
thing bigger  than  you  thought  possible. 

Great  heavens,  what  a  church ! 

Where  have  I  heard  a  church  called  "the 
House  of  God"?  I  think  it  was  in  Westmorland 
near  an  inn  called  "  The  Nag's  Head  " — or  per- 
haps ''The  Nag's  Head"  is  in  Cumberland — no 
matter,  I  did  once  hear  a  church  so  called.  But 
this  church  has  a  right  to  the  name.  It  is  a 
gathering-up  of  all  that  men  could  do.  It  has 
fifty  roofs,  it  has  a  gigantic  signal  tower,  it  has 
blank  walls  like  precipices,  and  round  arch  after 
round  arch,  and  architrave  after  architrave.  It 
is  like  a  good  and  settled  epic ;  or,  better  still, 
it  is  like  the  life  of  a  healthy  and  adventurous 
man  who,  having  accomplished  all  his  journeys 
and  taken  the  Fleece  of  Gold,  comes  home  to 
tell  his  stories  at  evening,  and  to  pass  among  his 
own  people  the  years  that  are  left  to  him  of  his 
age.  It  has  experience  and  growth  and  intensity 
of  knowledge,  all  caught  up  into  one  unity ;  it 
conquers  the  hill  upon  which  it  stands.  I  drew 
one  window  and  then  another,  and  then  before 
I  had  finished  that  a  cornice,  and  then  before  I 
had  finished  that  a  porch,  for  it  was  evening  when 
I  saw  it,  and  I  had  not  many  hours. 
197 


On  Something 

Music,  they  say,  does  something  to  the  soul, 
filling  it  full  of  unsatisfied  but  transcendent 
desires,  and  making  it  guess,  in  glimpses  that 
mix  and  fail,  the  soul's  ultimate  reward  or 
destiny.  Here,  in  Perigeux  of  the  Perigord, 
where  men  hunt  truffles  with  hounds,  stone  set 
in  a  certain  order  does  what  music  is  said  to  do. 
For  in  the  sight  of  this  standing  miracle  I  could 
believe  and  confess,  and  doubt  and  fear,  and 
control,  all  in  one. 

Here  is,  living  and  continuous,  the  Empire  in 
its  majority  and  its  determination  to  be  eternal. 
The  people  of  the  Perigord,  the  truffle-hunting 
people,  need  never  seek  civilization  nor  fear  its 
death,  for  they  have  its  symbol,  and  a  sacrament, 
as  it  were,  to  promise  them  that  the  arteries  of 
the  life  of  Europe  can  never  be  severed.  The 
arches  and  the  entablatures  of  this  solemn  thing 
are  alive. 

It  was  built  some  say  nine,  some  say  eight 
hundred  years  ago  ;  its  apse  was  built  yesterday, 
but  the  whole  of  it  is  outside  time. 

In  human  life,  which  goes  with  a  short  rush 
and  then  a  lull,  like  the  wind  among  trees  before 
rains,  great  moments  are  remembered  ;  they  com- 
fort us  and  they  help  us  to  laugh  at  decay.  I  am 
very  glad  that  I  once  saw  this  church  in  Perigeux 
of  the  Perigord. 

When  I  die  I  should  like  to  be  buried  in  my 
198 


Perigeux  of  the  Perigord 

own  land,  but  I  should  take  it  as  a  favour  from 
the  Bishop,  who  is  master  of  this  place,  if  he 
would  come  and  give  my  coffin  an  absolution, 
and  bring  with  him  the  cloth  and  the  silver 
cross,  and  if  he  would  carry  in  his  hand  (as 
some  of  the  statues  have)  a  little  model  of  St. 
Front,  the  church  which  I  have  seen  and  which 
renewed  my  faith. 


199 


The  Position   ^*       o       <^       o       <iy 

HPHERE  is  a  place  where  the  valley  of  the 
Allier  escapes  from  the  central  mountains  of 
France  and  broadens  out  into  a  fertile  plain. 

Here  is  a  march  or  boundary  between  two 
things,  the  one  familiar  to  most  English  travel- 
lers, the  other  unfamiliar.  The  familiar  thing  is 
the  rich  alluvium  and  gravel  of  the  Northern 
French  countrysides,  the  poplar  trees,  the  full 
and  quiet  rivers,  the  many  towns  and  villages  of 
stone,  the  broad  white  roads  interminable  and 
intersecting  the  very  fat  of  prosperity,  and  over 
it  all  a  mild  air.  The  unfamiliar  is  the  mass  of 
the  Avernian  Mountains,  which  mass  is  the  core 
and  centre  of  Gaul  and  of  Gaulish  history,  and  of 
the  unseen  power  that  lies  behind  the  whole  of 
that  business. 

The  plains  are  before  one,  the  mountains 
behind  one,  and  one  stands  in  that  borderland. 
I  know  it  well. 

I   have  said  that  in  the  Avernian  Mountains 

was   the    centre   of  Gaul  and    the  power  upon 

which  the  history  of  Gaul  depends.     Upon  the 

Margeride,    which    is    one    of   their    uttermost 

200 


The  Position 

ridges,  du  Guesclin  was  wounded  to  death.  One 
may  see  the  huge  stones  piled  up  on  the  place 
where  he  fell.  In  the  heart  of  those  mountains, 
at  Puy,  religion  has  effects  that  are  eerie ;  it 
uses  odd  high  peaks  for  shrines — needles  of 
rock ;  and  a  long  way  off  all  round  is  a  circle 
of  hills  of  a  black-blue  in  the  distance,  and  they 
and  the  rivers  have  magical  names— the  river 
Red  Cap  and  Chaise  Dieu,  "  God's  Chair."  In 
these  mountains  Julius  Caesar  lost  (the  story  says) 
his  sword ;  and  in  these  mountains  the  Roman 
armies  were  staved  off  by  the  Avernians.  They 
are  as  full  of  wonder  as  anything  in  Europe  can 
be,  and  they  are  complicated  and  tumbled  all 
about,  so  that  those  who  travel  in  them  with 
difficulty  remember  where  they  have  been,  unless 
indeed  they  have  that  general  eye  for  a  country- 
side which  is  rare  nowadays  among  men. 

Just  at  the  place  where  the  mountain  land  and 
the  plain  land  meet,  where  the  shallow  valleys 
get  rounder  and  less  abrupt,  I  went  last  Septem- 
ber, following  the  directions  of  a  soldier  who  had 
told  me  how  I  might  find  where  the  centre  of 
the  manreuvres  lay.  The  manoeuvres,  attempting 
to  reproduce  the  conditions  of  war,  made  a  drift- 
ing scheme  of  men  upon  either  side  of  the  River 
Sioule.  One  could  never  be  certain  where  one 
would  find  the  guns. 

I  had  come  up  off  the  main  road  from  Vichy, 
201 


On  Something 

walking  vaguely  towards  the  sound  of  the  firing. 
It  was  unfamiliar.  The  old  and  terrible  rumble 
has  been  lost  for  a  generation  ;  even  the  plain 
noise  of  the  field-piece  which  used  to  be  called 
"90  "  is  forgotten  by  the  young  men  now.  The 
new  little  guns  pop  and  ring.  And  when  you 
are  walking  towards  them  from  a  long  way  off 
you  do  not  seem  to  be  marching  towards  any- 
thing great,  but  rather  towards  something  clever. 
Nevertheless  it  is  as  easy  to-day  as  ever  it  was  to 
walk  towards  the  sound  of  cannon. 

Two  valleys  absolutely  lonely  had  I  trudged- 
through  since  the  sun  rose,  and  it  was  perhaps 
eight  o'clock  when  I  came  upon  one  of  those 
lonely  walled  parks  set  in  bare  fields  which  the 
French  gentry  seem  to  find  homelike  enough. 
I  asked  a  man  at  the  lodge  about  how  far  the 
position  was.  He  said  he  did  not  know,  and 
looked  upon  me  with  suspicion. 

I  went  down  into  the  depth  of  the  valley,  and 
there  I  met  a  priest  who  was  reading  his  Bre- 
viary and  erroneously  believed  me  (if  I  might 
judge  his  looks)  to  be  of  a  different  religion,,  for 
he  tested  philosophy  by  clothes ;  and  this,  by  the 
way,  is  unalterably  necessary  for  all  mankind. 
When,  however,  he  found  by  my  method  of 
address  that  I  knew  his  language  and  was  of  his 
own  faith,  he  became  very  courteous,  and  when 
I  told  him  that  I  wanted  to  find  the  position  he 

202 


The  Position 

became  as  lively  as  a  linesman,  making  little 
maps  with  his  stick  in  the  earth,  and  waving  his 
arms,  and  making  great  sweeps  with  his  hand  to 
show  the  way  in  which  the  army  had  been  drift- 
ing all  morning,  northward  and  eastward,  above 
the  Sioule,  with  the  other  division  on  the  opposite 
bank,  and  how,  whenever  there  was  a  bridge  to 
be  fought  for,  the  game  had  been  to  pretend 
that  one  or  the  other  had  got  hold  of  it.  Of 
this  priest  it  might  truly  be  said,  as  was  said  of 
the  priest  of  Thiers  in  the  Forez,  that  chance 
had  made  him  a  choir-boy,  but  destiny  had 
designed  him  for  the  profession  of  arms ;  and 
upon  this  one  could  build  an  interesting  comedy 
of  how  chance  and  destiny  are  perpetually  at 
issue,  and  how  chance,  having  more  initiative 
and  not  being  so  bound  to  routine,  gets  the 
better  of  destiny  upon  all  occasions  whatsoever. 

Well,  the  priest  showed  me  in  this  manner 
whither  I  should  walk,  and  so  I  came  out  of  the 
valley  on  to  a  great  upland,  and  there  a  small 
boy  (who  was  bullying  a  few  geese  near  a  pond) 
showed  much  the  same  excitement  as  the  priest 
when  he  told  me  at  what  village  I  should  find 
the  guns. 

That  village  was  a  few  miles  further  on.     As  I 

went  along  the  straight,  bare  road,  with  stubble 

upon  either  side,  I  thought  the  sound  of  firing 

got  louder ;  but  then,  again,  it  would  diminish,  as 

203 


On  Something 

the  batteries  took  a  further  and  a  further  posi- 
tion in  their  advance.  It  was  great  fun,  this 
sham  action,  with  its  crescent  of  advancing  fire 
and  one's  self  in  the  centre  of  the  curve.  At  the 
next  village  I  had  come  across  the  arteries  of 
the  movement.  By  one  road  provisionment  was 
going  off  to  the  right;  by  another  two  men 
with  messages,  one  a  Hussar  on  horseback,  the 
other  a  Reservist  upon  a  bicycle,  went  by  me 
very  quickly.  Then  from  behind  some  high 
trees  in  a  churchyard  there  popped  out  a  lot  of 
little  Engineers,  who  were  rolling  a  great  roll  of 
wire  along.  So  I  went  onwards ;  and  at  last 
I  came  to  a  cleft  just  before  the  left  bank  of  the 
Sioule.  This  cleft  appeared  deserted  :  there  was 
brushwood  on  its  sides  and  a  tiny  stream  running 
through  it.  On  the  ridge  beyond  were  the  roofs 
of  a  village.  The  firing  of  the  pieces  was  now 
quite  close  and  near.  They  were  a  little  further 
than  the  houses  of  the  hamlet,  doubtless  in  some 
flat  field  where  the  position  was  favourable  to 
them.  Down  that  cleft  I  went,  and  in  its  hollow 
I  saw  the  first  post,  but  as  yet  nothing  more. 
Then  when  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  opposing  ridge 
I  found  the  whole  of  the  38th  lolling  under 
the  cover  of  the  road  bank.  From  below  you 
would  have  said  there  were  no  men  at  all.  The 
guns  were  right  up  beyond  the  line,  firing  away. 
I  went  up  past  the  linesmen  till  I  found  the  guns. 
204 


The  Position 

And  what  a  pretty  sight !  They  were  so  small 
and  light  and  delicate  !  There  was  no  clanking, 
and  no  shouting,  and  to  fire  them  a  man  pulled 
a  mere  trigger.  I  thought  to  myself :  "  How 
simple  and  easy  our  civilization  becomes.  Think 
of  the  motor-cars,  and  how  they  purr.  Think  of 
the  simple  telephone,  and  all  the  other  little 
things."  And  with  this  thought  in  my  mind 
I  continued  to  watch  the  guns.  Without  yells  or 
worry  a  man  spoke  gently  to  other  men,  and  they 
all  limbered  up,  quite  easily.  The  weight  seemed 
to  have  gone  since  my  time.  They  trotted  off 
with  the  pieces,  and  when  they  crossed  the  little 
ditch  at  the  edge  of  the  field  I  waited  for  the 
heavy  clank-clank  and  the  jog  that  ought  to  go 
with  that  well-known  episode ;  but  I  did  not 
hear  it,  and  I  saw  no  shock.  They  got  off  the 
field  with  its  little  ditch  on  to  the  high  road  as 
a  light  cart  with  good  springs  might  have  done. 
And  when  they  massed  themselves  under  the 
cover  of  a  roll  of  land  it  was  all  done  again  with- 
out noise.  I  thought  a  little  sadly  that  the  world 
had  changed.  But  it  was  all  so  pretty  and  sensi- 
ble that  I  hardly  regretted  the  change.  There 
was  a  stretch  of  road  in  front  where  nothing  on 
earth  could  have  given  cover.  The  line  was  on 
its  stomach,  firing  away,  and  it  was  getting  fired 
at  apparently,  in  the  sham  of  the  manoeuvre  from 
the  other  side  of  the  Sioule.  As  it  covered  this 
205 


On  Something 

open  space  the  line  edged  forward  and  upward. 
When  a  certain  number  of  the  38th  had 
worked  up  like  this,  the  whole  bunch  of  them, 
from  half  a  mile  down  the  road,  right  through 
the  village,,  were  moved  along,  and  the  head  of 
the  column  was  scattered  to  follow  up  the  firing. 
It  was  like  spraying  water  out  of  a  tap.  The 
guns  still  stood  massed,  and  then  at  a  sudden 
order  which  was  passed  along  as  though  in  the 
tones  of  a  conversation  (and  again  1  thought  to 
myself,  "  Surely  the  world  is  turning  upside  down 
since  I  was  a  boy")  they  started  off  at  a  sharp 
gallop  and  leapt,  as  it  were,  the  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  of  open  road  between  cover  and 
cover.  They  were  very  well  driven.  The 
middle  horses  and  the  wheelers  were  doing  their 
work  :  it  was  not  only  the  leaders  that  kept  the 
traces  taut.  It  was  wonderfully  pretty  to  see 
them  go  by  :  not  like  a  storm  but  like  a  smoke. 
No  one  could  have  hit  those  gunners  or  those 
teams.  Whether  they  were  on  the  sky-line  or  not 
I  could  not  tell,  but  at  any  rate  they  could  have 
been  seen  just  for  that  moment  from  beyond  the 
Sioule.  And  when  they  massed  up  again,  be- 
yond— some  seconds  afterwards — one  heard  the 
pop-pop  from  over  the  valley,  which  showed  they 
had  been  seen  just  too  late. 

Hours  and  hours  after  that  I  went  on  with  the 
young  fellows.     The  guns  I  could  not  keep  with  : 
206 


The  Position 

I  walked  with  the  line.  And  all  the  while  as  I 
walked  I  kept  on  wondering  at  the  change  that 
conies  over  European  things.  This  army  of 
young  men  doing  two  years,  with  its  odd  silence 
and  its  sharp  twittering  movements,  and  the  sense 
of  eyes  all  round  one,  of  men  glancing  and  appre- 
ciating :  individual  men  catching  an  opportunity 
for  cover;  and  commanding  men  catching  the 
whole  countryside.  .  .  .  Then,  in  the  early 
afternoon,  the  bugles  and  the  trumpets  sounded 
that  long-drawn  call  which  has  attended  victories 
and  capitulations,  and  which  is  also  sounded 
every  night  to  tell  people  to  put  out  the  lights  in 
the  barrack-rooms.  It  is  the  French  "  Cease  fire." 
And  whether  from  the  national  irony  or  the 
national  economy,  I  know  not,  but  the  stopping 
of  either  kind  of  fire  has  the  same  call  attached 
to  it,  and  you  must  turn  out  a  light  in  a  French 
barrack-room  to  the  same  notes  as  you  must  by 
command  stop  shooting  at  the  other  people. 

The  game  was  over.  I  faced  the  fourteen  miles 
back  to  Gannat  very  stiff.  All  during  those 
hours  I  had  been  wondering  at  the  novelty  of 
Europe,  and  at  all  these  young  men  now  so 
different,  at  the  silence  and  the  cover,  and  the 
hefty,  disposable  little  guns.  But  when  I  had 
my  face  turned  southward  again  to  get  back  to 
a  meal,  that  other  aspect  of  Europe,  its  eternity, 
was  pictured  all  abroad.  For  there  right  before 
207 


On  Something 

me  stood  the  immutable  mountains,  which  stand 
enormous  and  sullen,  but  also  vague  at  the  base, 
and,  therefore,  in  their  summits,  unearthly,  above 
the  Limagne.  There  was  that  upper  valley  of 
the  Allier  down  which  Caesar  had  retreated, 
gathering  his  legions  into  the  North,  and  there 
was  that  silent  and  menacing  sky  which  every- 
where broods  over  Auvergne,  and  even  in  its 
clearest  days  seems  to  lend  the  granite  and  the 
lava  land  a  sort  of  doomed  hardness,  as  though 
Heaven  in  this  country  commanded  and  did  not 
allure.  Never  had  I  seen  a  landscape  more 
mysterious  than  those  hills,  nor  at  the  same  time 
anything  more  enduring. 


208 


Home     <^       *s»       x;^y       *o       *o       o 

'T'HERE  is  a  river  called  the  Eure  which  runs 
•^  between  low  hills  often  wooded,  with  a  flat 
meadow  floor  in  between.  It  so  runs  for  many 
miles.  The  towns  that  are  set  upon  it  are  for  the 
most  part  small  and  rare,  and  though  the  river  is 
well  known  by  name,  and  though  one  of  the  chief 
cathedrals  of  Europe  stands  near  its  source,  for 
the  most  part  it  is  not  visited  by  strangers. 

In  this  valley  one  day  as  I  was  drawing  a 
picture  of  the  woods  I  found  a  wandering 
Englishman  who  was  in  the  oddest  way.  He 
seemed  by  the  slight  bend  at  his  knees  and  the 
leaning  forward  of  his  head  to  have  no  very  great 
care  how  much  further  he  might  go.  He  was  in 
the  clothes  of  an  English  tourist,  which  looked 
odd  in  such  a  place,  as,  for  that  matter,  they  do 
anywhere.  He  had  upon  his  head  a  pork-pie  hat 
which  was  of  the  same  colour  and  texture  as  his 
clothes,  a  speckly  brown.  He  carried  a  thick 
stick.  He  was  a  man  over  fifty  years  of  age  ;  his 
face  was  rather  hollow  and  worn  ;  his  eyes  were 
very  simple  and  pale ;  he  was  bearded  with  a 
weak  beard,  and  in  his  expression  there  appeared 
14  209 


On   Something 

a  constrained  but  kindly  weariness.  This  was 
the  man  who  came  up  to  me  as  I  was  drawing  my 
picture.  I  had  heard  him  scrambling  in  the 
undergrowth  of  the  woods  just  behind  me. 

He  came  out  and  walked  to  me  across  the  few 
yards  of  meadow.  The  haying  was  over,  so  he 
did  the  grass  no  harm.  He  came  and  stood  near 
me,  irresolutely,  looking  vaguely  up  and  across 
the  valley  towards  the  further  woods,  and  then 
gently  towards  what  I  was  drawing.  When  he 
had  so  stood  still  and  so  looked  for  a  moment  he 
asked  me  in  French  the  name  of  the  great  house 
whose  roof  showed  above  the  more  ordered  trees 
beyond  the  river,  where  a  park  emerged  from 
and  mixed  with  the  forest.  I  told  him  the  name 
of  the  house,  whereupon  he  shook  his  head  and 
said  that  he  had  once  more  come  to  the  wrong 
place. 

I  asked  him  what  he  meant,  and  he  told  me, 
sitting  down  slowly  and  carefully  upon  the  grass, 
this  adventure  : 

"First,"  said  he,  "are  you  always  quite  sure 
whether  a  thing  is  really  there  or  not?" 

"  I  am  always  quite  sure,"  said  I  ;  "I  am 
always  positive." 

He  sighed,  and  added  :  "  Could  you  understand 
how  a  man  might  feel  that  things  were  really 
there  when  they  were  not?  " 

"Only,"  said  I,  "in  some  very  vivid    dream, 


Home 

and  even  then  I  think  a  man  knows  pretty  well 
inside  his  own  mind  that  he  is  dreaming."  I 
said  that  it  seemed  to  me  rather  like  the  question 
of  the  cunning  of  lunatics  ;  most  of  them  know 
at  the  bottom  of  their  silly  minds  that  they  are 
cracked,  as  you  may  see  by  the  way  they  plot 
and  pretend. 

"  You  are  not  sympathetic  with  me/'  he  said 
slowly,  "  but  I  will  nevertheless  tell  you  what  I 
want  to  tell  you,  for  it  will  relieve  me,  and  it  will 
explain  to  you  why  I  have  again  come  into  this 
valley." 

"Why  do  you  say  ( again'  ?  "  said  I. 

"Because,"  he  answered  gently,  "whenever 
my  work  gives  me  the  opportunity  I  do  the  same 
thing.  I  go  up  the  valley  of  the  Seine  by  train 
from  Dieppe  ;  I  get  out  at  the  station  at  which  I 
got  out  on  that  day,  and  I  walk  across  these  low 
hills,  hoping  that  I  may  strike  just  the  path  and 
just  the  mood — but  I  never  do." 

"  What  path  and  what  mood  ?  "  said  I. 

"I  was  telling  you,"  he  answered  patiently, 
"only  you  were  so  brutal  about  reality."  And 
then  he  sighed.  He  put  his  stick  across  his  knees 
as  he  sat  there  on  the  grass,  held  it  with  a  hand 
on  either  side  of  his  knees,  and  so  sitting  bunched 
up  began  his  tale  once  more. 

"  It  was  ten  years  ago,  and  I  was  extremely 
tired,  for  you  must  know  that  I  am  a  Government 
211 


On  Something 

servant,  and  I  find  my  work  most  wearisome.  It 
was  just  this  time  of  year  that  I  took  a  week's 
holiday.  I  intended  to  take  it  in  Paris,  but  I 
thought  on  my  way,  as  the  weather  was  so  fine, 
that  I  would  do  something  new  and  that  I  would 
walk  a  little  way  off'  the  track.  I  had  often 
wondered  what  country  lay  behind  the  low  and 
steep  hills  on  the  i-ight  of  the  railway  line. 

"  I  had  crossed  the  Channel  by  night,"  he  con- 
tinued, a  little  sorry  for  himself,  "to  save  the 
expense.  It  was  dawn  when  I  reached  Rouen, 
and  there  I  very  well  remember  drinking  some 
coffee  which  I  did  not  like,  and  eating  some  good 
bread  which  I  did.  I  changed  carriages  at  Rouen 
because  the  express  did  not  stop  at  any  of  the 
little  stations  beyond.  I  took  a  slower  train, 
which  came  immediately  behind  it,  and  stopped 
at  most  of  the  stations.  I  took  my  ticket  rather 
at  random  for  a  little  station  between  Pont  de 
1'Arche  and  Mantes.  I  got  out  at  that  little 
station,  and  it  was  still  early — only  midway 
through  the  morning. 

"  I  was  in  an  odd  mixture  of  fatigue  and  ex- 
hilaration :  I  had  not  slept  and  I  would  willingly 
have  done  so,  but  the  freshness  of  the  new  day 
was  upon  me,  and  I  have  always  had  a  very  keen 
curiosity  to  see  new  sights  and  to  know  what  lies 
behind  the  hills. 

"  The  day  was  fine  and  already  rather  hot  for 


Home 

June.  I  did  not  stop  in  the  village  near  the 
station  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  just  the  time 
to  take  some  soup  and  a  little  wine ;  then  I  set 
out  into  the  woods  to  cross  over  into  this  parallel 
valley.  I  knew, that  I  should  come  to  it  and  to 
the  railway  line  that  goes  down  it  in  a  very  few 
miles.  I  proposed  when  I  came  to  that  other 
railway  line  on  the  far  side  of  the  hills  to  walk 
quietly  down  it  as  nearly  parallel  to  it  as  I  could 
get,  and  at  the  first  station  to  take  the  next  train 
for  Chartres,  and  then  the  next  day  to  go  from 
Chartres  to  Paris.  That  was  my  plan. 

"The  road  up  into  the  woods  was  one  of  those 
great  French  roads  which  sometimes  frighten  me 
and  always  weary  me  by  their  length  and  insist- 
ence :  men  seem  to  have  taken  so  much  trouble 
to  make  them,  and  they  make  me  feel  as  though 
I  had  to  take  trouble  myself;  I  avoid  them  when 
I  walk.  Therefore,  so  soon  as  this  great  road 
had  struck  the  crest  of  the  hills  and  was  well 
into  the  woods  (cutting  through  them  like  the 
trench  of  a  fortification,  with  the  tall  trees  on 
either  side)  I  struck  out  into  a  ride  which  had 
been  cut  through  them  many  years  ago  and  was 
already  half  overgrown,  and  I  went  along  this 
ride  for  several  miles. 

"  It  did  not  matter  to  me  how  I  went,  since  my 
design  was  so  simple  and  since  any  direction 
more  or  less  westward  would  enable  me  to  fulfil 
213 


On  Something 

it,  that  is,  to  come  down  upon  the  valley  of  the 
Eure  and  to  find  the  single  railway  line  which 
leads  to  Chartres.  The  woods  were  very  pleasant 
on  that  June  noon,  and  once  or  twice  I  was 
inclined  to  linger  in  their  shade  and  sleep  an 
hour.  But — note  this  clearly — I  did  not  sleep. 
I  remember  every  moment  of  the  way,  though 
I  confess  my  fatigue  oppressed  me  somewhat  as 
the  miles  continued. 

"At  last  by  the  steepness  of  a  new  descent 
I  recognized  that  I  had  crossed  the  watershed 
and  was  coming  down  into  the  valley  of  this  river. 
The  ride  had  dwindled  to  a  path,  and  I  was 
wondering  where  the  path  would  lead  me  when 
I  noticed  that  it  was  getting  more  orderly : 
there  were  patches  of  sand,  and  here  and  there 
a  man  had  cut  and  trimmed  the  edges  of  the 
way.  Then  it  became  more  orderly  still.  It  was 
all  sanded,  and  there  were  artificial  bushes  here 
and  there — I  mean  bushes  not  native  to  the 
forest,  until  at  last  I  was  aware  that  my  ramble 
had  taken  me  into  some  one's  own  land,  and  that 
I  was  in  a  private  ground. 

"  I  saw  no  great  harm  in  this,  for  a  traveller,  if 
he  explains  himself,  will  usually  be  excused  ; 
moreover,  I  had  to  continue,  for  I  knew  no  other 
way,  and  this  path  led  me  westward  also.  Only, 
whether  because  my  trespassing  worried  me  or 
because  I  felt  my  own  dishevelment  more  acutely, 
214 


Home 

the  lack  of  sleep  and  the  strain  upon  me  in- 
creased as  I  pursued  those  last  hundred  yards, 
until  I  came  out  suddenly  from  behind  a  screen 
of  rosebushes  upon  a  large  lawn,  and  at  the  end 
of  it  there  was  a  French  country  house  with  a 
moat  round  it,  such  as  they  often  have,  and  a 
stone  bridge  over  the  moat. 

"  The  chateau  was  simple  and  very  grand.  The 
mouldings  upon  it  pleased  me,  and  it  was  full  of 
peace.  Upon  the  further  side  of  the  lawn,  so 
that  I  could  hear  it  but  not  see  it,  a  fountain  was 
playing  into  a  basin.  By  the  sound  it  was  one 
of  those  high  French  fountains  which  the  people 
who  built  such  houses  as  these  two  hundred  years 
ago  delighted  in.  The  plash  of  it  was  very 
soothing,  but  I  was  so  tired  and  drooping  that  at 
one  moment  it  sounded  much  further  than  at  the 
next. 

"  There  was  an  iron  bench  at  the  edge  of  the 
screen  of  roses,  and  hardly  knowing  what  I  did, 
— for  it  was  not  the  right  thing  to  do  in  another 
person's  place — I  sat  down  on  this  bench,  taking 
pleasure  in  the  sight  of  the  moat  and  the  house 
with  its  noble  roof,  and  the  noise  of  the  fountain. 
I  think  I  should  have  gone  to  sleep  there  and 
at  that  moment — for  I  felt  upon  me  worse  than 
ever  the  strain  of  that  long  hot  morning  and 
that  long  night  journey — had  not  a  very  curious 
thing  happened." 

215 


On  Something 

Here  the  man  looked  up  at  me  oddly,  as 
though  to  see  whether  I  disbelieved  him  or  riot ; 
but  I  did  not  disbelieve  him. 

I  was  not  even  very  much  interested,  for  I  was 
trying  to  make  the  trees  to  look  different  one 
from  the  other,  which  is  an  extremely  difficult 
thing :  I  had  not  succeeded  and  I  was  niggling 
away.  He  continued  with  more  assurance  : 

"  The  thing  that  happened  was  this  :  a  young 
girl  came  out  of  the  house  dressed  in  white,  with 
a  blue  scarf  over  her  head  and  crossed  round  her 
neck.  I  knew  her  face  as  well  as  possible:  it 
was  a  face  I  had  known  all  my  youth  and  early 
manhood — but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not 
remember  her  name  !  " 

"When  one  is  very  tired/'  I  said,  "that  does 
happen  to  one :  a  name  one  knows  as  well  as 
one's  own  escapes  one.  It  is  especially  the  effect 
of  lack  of  sleep." 

"It  is,"  said  he,  sighing  profoundly ;  "but  the 
oddness  of  my  feeling  it  is  impossible  to  describe, 
for  there  I  was  meeting  the  oldest  and  perhaps 
the  dearest  and  certainly  the  most  familiar  of 
my  friends,  whom,"  he  added,  hesitating  a 
moment,  "  I  had  not  seen  for  many  years.  It 
was  a  very  great  pleasure  ...  it  was  a  sort 
of  comfort  and  an  ending.  I  forgot,  the  moment 
I  saw  her,  why  I  had  come  over  the  hills,  and 
all  about  how  I  meant  to  get  to  Chartres.  .  .  . 
216 


Home 

And  now  I  must  tell  you/'  added  the  man  a  little 
awkwardly,  "  that  my  name  is  Peter." 

"No  doubt/'  said  I  gravely,  for  I  could  not  see 
why  he  should  not  bear  that  name. 

"  My  Christian  name/'  he  continued  hurriedly. 

"  Of  course,"  said  I,  as  sympathetically  as  I 
could.  He  seemed  relieved  that  I  had  not  even 
smiled  at  it. 

"  Yes/'  he  went  on  rather  quickly,  "  Peter — 
my  name  is  Peter.  Well,  this  lady  came  up  to 
me  and  said,  'Why,  Peter,  we  never  thought 
you  would  come  ! '  She  did  not  seem  very  much 
astonished,  but  rather  as  though  I  had  come 
earlier  than  she  had  expected.  '  I  will  get 
Philip/  she  said.  '  You  remember  Philip  ?  '  Here 
I  had  another  little  trouble  with  my  memory : 
I  did  remember  that  there  was  a  Philip,  but  I 
could  not  place  him.  That  was  odd,  you  know. 
As  for  her,  oh,  I  knew  her  as  well  as  the  colour 
of  the  sky :  it  was  her  name  that  my  brain  missed, 
as  it  might  have  missed  my  own  name  or  my 
mother's. 

"  Philip  came  out  as  she  called  him,  and  there 
was  a  familiarity  between  them  that  seemed 
natural  to  me  at  the  time,  but  whether  he  was 
a  brother  or  a  lover  or  a  husband,  or  what,  I 
could  not  for  the  life  of  me  remember. 

" '  You  look  tired/   he  said  to  me  in  a  kind 
voice  that  I  liked  very  much  and  remembered 
217 


On  Something 

clearly.  '  I  am,'  said  I,  '  dog  tired.'  '  Come  in 
with  us,'  he  said,  fand  we  will  give  you  some 
wine  and  water.  When  would  you  like  to  eat  ?  ' 
I  said  I  would  rather  sleep  than  eat.  He  said 
that  could  easily  be  arranged. 

"  I  strolled  with  them  towards  the  house  across 
that  great  lawn,  hearing  the  noise  of  the  fountain, 
now  dimmer,  now  nearer ;  sometimes  it  seemed 
miles  away  and  sometimes  right  in  my  ears. 
Whether  it  was  their  conversation  or  my  famili- 
arity with  them  or  my  fatigue,  at  any  rate,  as 
I  crossed  the  moat  I  could  no  longer  recall  any- 
thing save  their  presence.  I  was  not  even 
troubled  by  the  desire  to  recall  anything ;  I  was 
full  of  a  complete  contentment,  and  this  surging 
up  of  familiar  things,  this  surging  up  of  it  in  a 
foreign  place,  without  excuse  or  possible  con- 
nexion or  any  explanation  whatsoever,  seemed 
to  me  as  natural  as  breathing. 

"As  I  crossed  the  bridge  I  wholly  forgot 
whence  I  came  or  whither  I  was  going,  but  I 
knew  myself  better  than  ever  I  had  known 
myself,  and  every  detail  of  the  place  was  familiar 
to  me. 

"Here  I  had  passed  (I  thought)  many  hours 
of  my  childhood  and  my  boyhood  and  my  early 
manhood  also.  I  ceased  considering  the  names 
and  the  relation  of  Philip  and  the  girl. 

"  They  gave  me  cold  meat  and  bread  and  excel- 
218 


Home 

lent  wine,  and  water  to  mix  with  it,  and  as  they 
continued  to  speak  even  the  last  adumbrations 
of  care  fell  off  me  altogether,  and  my  spirit 
seemed  entirely  released  and  free.  My  approach- 
ing sleep  beckoned  to  me  like  an  easy  entrance 
into  Paradise.  I  should  wake  from  it  quite 
simply  into  the  perpetual  enjoyment  of  this  place 
and  its  companionship.  Oh,  it  was  an  absolute 
repose ! 

"  Philip  took  me  to  a  little  room  on  the  ground 
floor  fitted  with  the  exquisite  care  and  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  French :  there  was  a  curtained  bed, 
a  thing  I  love.  He  lent  me  night  clothes,  though 
it  was  broad  day,  because  he  said  that  if  I  un- 
dressed and  got  into  the  bed  I  should  be  much 
more  rested  ;  they  would  keep  everything  quiet 
at  that  end  of  the  house,  and  the  gentle  fall 
of  the  water  into  the  moat  outside  would  not 
disturb  me.  I  said  on  the  contrary  it  would 
soothe  me,  and  I  felt  the  benignity  of  the  place 
possess  me  like  a  spell.  Remember  that  I  was 
very  tired  and  had  not  slept  for  now  thirty 
hours. 

"  I  remember  handling  the  white  counterpane 
and  noting  the  delicate  French  pattern  upon  it, 
and  seeing  at  one  corner  the  little  red  silk 
coronet  embroidered,  which  made  me  smile.  I 
remember  putting  my  hand  upon  the  cool  linen 
of  the  pillow-case  and  smoothing  it ;  then  I  got 
219 


On  Something 

into  that  bed  and  fell  asleep.  It  was  broad  noon, 
with  the  stillness  that  comes  of  a  summer  noon 
upon  the  woods ;  the  air  was  cool  and  delicious 
above  the  water  of  the  moat,  and  my  windows 
were  open  to  it. 

"The  last  thing  I  heard  as  I  dropped  asleep 
was  her  voice  calling  to  Philip  in  the  corridor.  I 
could  have  told  the  very  place.  I  knew  that 
corridor  so  well.  We  used  to  play  there  when 
we  were  children.  We  used  to  play  at  travel- 
ling, and  we  used  to  invent  the  names  of  railway 
stations  for  the  various  doors.  Remembering 
this  and  smiling  at  the  memory,  I  fell  at  once 
into  a  blessed  sleep. 

".  .  .  .  I  do  not  want  to  annoy  you/'  said  the 
man  apologetically,  "  but  I  really  had  to  tell  you 
this  story,  and  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  the 
end  of  it." 

"  Go  on,"  said  I  hurriedly,  for  I  had  gone  and 
made  two  trees  one  exactly  like  the  other  (which 
in  nature  was  never  seen)  and  I  was  annoyed  with 
myself. 

"Well,"  said  he,  still  hesitating  and  sighing 
with  real  sadness,  "when  I  woke  up  I  was  in 
a  third-class  carriage ;  the  light  was  that  of  late 
afternoon,  and  a  man  had  woken  me  by  tap- 
ping my  shoulder  and  telling  me  that  the  next 
station  was  Chartres.  .  .  .  That's  all." 

He  sighed  again.     He   expected   me   to   say 


Home 

something.  So  I  did.  I  said  without  much 
originality :  "  You  must  have  dreamed  it." 

"  Xo,"  said  he,  very  considerably  put  out,  "  that 
is  the  point !  I  didn't !  I  tell  you  I  can  remember 
exactly  every  stage  from  when  I  left  the  railway 
train  in  the  Seine  Valley  until  I  got  into  that  bed." 

"  It's  all  very  odd,"  said  I. 

"Yes/'  said  he,  "and  so  was  my  mood  ;  but  it 
was  real  enough.  It  was  the  second  or  third 
most  real  thing  that  has  ever  happened  to  me. 
I  am  quite  certain  that  it  happened  to  me." 

I  remained  silent,  and  rubbed  out  the  top  of 
one  of  my  trees  so  as  to  invent  a  new  top  for  it, 
since  I  could  not  draw  it  as  it  was.  Then,  as  he 
wanted  me  to  say  something  more,  I  said  :  "  Well, 
you  must  have  got  into  the  train  somehow." 

"  Of  course,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  where  did  you  get  into  the  train  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Your  ticket  would  have  told  you  that." 

"  I  think  1  must  have  given  it  up  to  the  man," 
he  answered  doubtfully,  "  the  guard  who  told  me 
that  the  next  station  was  Chartres." 

"  Well,  it's  all  very  mysterious,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  getting  up  rather  weakly  to  go 
on  again,  "it  is."  And  he  sighed  again.  "I 
come  here  every  year.  I  hope,"  he  added  a 
little  wistfully,  "  I  hope,  you  see,  that  it  may 
happen  to  me  again  .  .  .  but  it  never  does." 


On  Something 

"It  will  at  last/'  said  I  to  comfort  him. 

And,  will  you  believe  it,  that  simple  sentence 
made  him  in  a  moment  radiantly  happy ;  his  face 
beamed,  and  he  positively  thanked  me,  thanked 
me  warmly. 

"You  speak  like  one  inspired,"  he  said.  (I 
confess  I  did  not  feel  like  it  at  all.)  "  I  shall 
go  much  lighter  on  my  way  after  that  sentence 
of  yours." 

He  bade  me  good-bye  with  some  ceremony 
and  slouched  off,  with  his  eyes  set  towards  the 
west  and  the  more  distant  hills. 


The  Way  to  Fairyland         ^       ^>       ^ 

A  CHILD  of  four  years  old,  having  read  of 
V*^  Fairyland  and  of  the  people  in  it,  asked 
only  two  days  ago,  in  a  very  popular  attitude  of 
doubt,  whether  there  were  any  such  place,  and, 
if  so,  where  it  was  ;  for  she  believed  in  her  heart 
that  the  whole  thing  was  a  pack  of  lies. 

I  was  happy  to  be  able  to  tell  her  that  her 
scepticism,  though  well  founded,  was  extreme. 
The  existence  of  Fairyland,  I  was  able  to  point 
out  to  her  both  by  documentary  evidence  from 
books  and  also  by  calling  in  the  testimony  of  the 
aged,  could  not  be  doubted  by  any  reasonable 
pei-son.  What  was  really  difficult  was  the  way  to 
get  there.  Indeed,  so  obviously  true  was  the 
existence  of  Fairyland,  that  every  one  in  this 
world  set  out  to  go  there  as  a  matter  of  course, 
but  so  difficult  was  it  to  find  the  way  that  very 
few  reached  the  place.  Upon  this  the  child  very 
naturally  asked  me  what  sort  of  way  the  way 
was  and  why  it  was  so  difficult. 

"You  must  first  understand,"  said  I,  "where 
Fairyland  is  :  it  lies  a  little  way  farther  than  the 
farthest  hill  you  can  see.  It  lies,  in  fact,  just 
223 


On  Something 

beyond  that  hill.  The  frontiers  of  it  are  some- 
times a  little  doubtful  in  any  landscape,  because 
the  landscape  is  confused,  but  if  on  the  extreme 
limits  of  the  horizon  you  see  a  long  line  of  hills 
bounding  your  view  exactly,  then  you  may  be 
perfectly  certain  that  on  the  other  side  of  those 
hills  is  Fairyland.  There  are  times  of  the  day 
and  of  the  weather  when  the  sky  over  Fairyland 
can  be  clearly  perceived,  for  it  has  a  different 
colour  from  any  other  kind  of  sky.  That  is  where 
Fairyland  is.  It  is  not  on  an  island,  as  some 
have  pretended,  still  less  is  it  under  the  earth — 
a  ridiculous  story,  for  there  it  is  all  dark." 

"  But  how  do  you  get  there  ? "  asked  the 
child.  "  Do  you  get  there  by  walking  to  the 
hills  and  going  over?  " 

"No,"  said  I,  "that  is  just  the  bother  of  it. 
Several  people  have  thought  that  that  was  the 
way  of  getting  there ;  in  fact,  it  looked  plain 
common  sense,  but  there  is  a  trick  about  it;  when 
you  get  to  the  hills  everything  changes,  because 
the  fairies  have  that  power :  the  hills  become 
ordinary,  the  people  living  on  them  turn  into 
people  just  like  you  and  me,  and  then  when  you 
get  to  the  top  of  the  hills,  before  you  can  say 
knife  another  common  country  just  like  ours  ha, 
been  stuck  on  the  other  side.  On  this  accounts 
through  the  power  of  the  fairies,  who  hate  par- 
ticularly to  be  disturbed,  no  one  can  reach  Fairy- 
224 


The  Way  to  Fairyland 

land  in  so  simple  a  way  as  by  walking  towards 
it." 

"Then,"  said  the  child  to  me,  "I  don't  see 
how  any  one  can  get  there  " — for  this  child  had 
good  brains  and  common  sense. 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  must  have  read  in  stories 
of  people  who  get  to  Fairyland,  and  I  think  you 
will  notice  that  in  the  stories  written  by  people 
who  know  anything  about  it  (and  you  know  how 
easily  these  are  distinguished  from  the  others) 
there  are  always  two  ways  of  getting  to  Fairy- 
land, and  only  two :  one  is  by  mistake,  and  the 
other  is  by  a  spell.  In  the  first  way  to  Fairy- 
land is  to  lose  your  way,  and  this  is  one  of  the 
best  ways  of  getting  there ;  but  it  is  dangerous, 
because  if  you  get  there  that  way  you  offend  the 
fairies.  It  is  better  to  get  there  by  a  spell.  But 
the  inconvenience  of  that  is  that  you  are  blind- 
folded so  as  not  to  be  allowed  to  remember  the 
way  there  or  back  again.  When  you  get  there 
by  a  spell,  one  of  the  people  from  Fairyland 
takes  you  in  charge.  They  prefer  to  do  it  when 
you  are  asleep,  but  they  are  quite  game  to  do  it 
at  other  times  if  they  think  it  worth  their  while. 

"  Why  do  they  do  it  ?  "  said  the  child. 

"  They  do  it,"  said  I,  "  because  it  annoys  the 
fairies  very  much  to  think  that  people  are  stop- 
ping believing  in  them.  They  are  very  proud 
people,  and  think  a  lot  of  themselves.  They  can, 
i5  225 


On  Something 

if  they  like,  do  us  good,  and  they  think  us  un- 
grateful when  we  forget  about  them.  Sometimes 
in  the  past  people  have  gone  on  forgetting  about 
fairies  more  and  more  and  more,  until  at  last 
they  have  stopped  believing  in  them  altogether. 
The  fairies  meanwhile  have  been  looking  after 
their  own  affairs,  and  it  is  their  fault  more  than 
ours  when  we  forget  about  them.  But  when 
this  has  gone  on  for  too  long  a  time  the  fairies 
wake  up  and  find  out  by  a  way  they  have  that 
men  have  stopped  believing  in  them,  and  get 
very  much  annoyed.  Then  some  fairy  proposes 
that  a  map  of  the  way  to  Fairyland  should  be 
drawn  up  and  given  to  the  people ;  but  this  is 
always  voted  down ;  and  at  last  they  make  up 
their  minds  to  wake  people  up  to  Fairyland  by 
going  and  visiting  this  world,  and  by  spells 
bringing  several  people  into  their  kingdom  and 
so  getting  witnesses.  For,  as  you  can  imagine,  it 
is  a  most  unpleasant  thing  to  be  really  important 
and  for  other  people  not  to  know  it." 

"Yes,"  said  the  child,  who  had  had  this  un- 
pleasant experience,  and  greatly  sympathized 
with  the  fairies  when  I  explained  how  much  they 
disliked  it.  Then  the  child  asked  me  again  : 

"Why  do  the  fairies  let  us  forget  about 
them? " 

"  It  is,"  said  I,  "  because  they  get  so  excited 
about  their  own  affairs.  Rather  more  than  a 
226 


The  Way  to  Fairyland 

hundred  years  ago,  for  instance,  a  war  broke  out 
in  Fairyland  because  the  King  of  the  Fairies, 
whose  name  is  Oberon,  and  the  Queen  of  the 
Fairies,  whose  name  is  Titania,  had  asked  the 
Trolls  to  dinner.  The  Gnomes  were  very  much 
annoyed  at  this,  and  the  Elves  still  more  so,  for 
the  chief  glory  of  the  Elves  was  that  being  elfish 
got  you  to  know  people  ;  and  it  was  universally 
admitted  that  the  Trolls  ought  never  to  be  asked 
out,  because  they  were  trollish.  King  Oberon 
said  that  all  that  was  a  wicked  prejudice,  and 
that  the  Trolls  ought  to  be  asked  out  to  dinner 
just  as  much  as  the  Elves,  in  common  justice. 
But  his  real  reason  was  that  he  was  bored  by  the 
perpetual  elfishness  of  the  Elves,  and  wanted  to 
see  the  great  ugly  Trolls  trying  to  behave  like 
gentlemen  for  a  change.  So  the  Trolls  came  and 
tied  their  napkins  round  their  necks,  and  ate 
such  enormous  quantities  at  dinner  that  King 
Oberon  and  his  Queen  almost  died  of  laughing. 
The  Elves  were  frightfully  jealous,  and  so  the 
war  began.  And  while  it  was  going  on  every- 
body in  Earthland  forgot  more  and  more  about 
Fairyland,  until  at  last  some  people  went  so  far 
as  to  say,  like  you,  that  Fairyland  did  not  exist." 

" I  did  not  say  so,"  said  the  child,  "I  only 
asked." 

"But,"  I  answered  severely,  " asking  about 
such  things  is  the  beginning  of  doubting  them. 
227 


On  Something 

Anyhow,  the  fairies  woke  up  one  fine  day  about 
the  time  when  your  great-grandfather  got 
married,  to  discover  that  they  were  not  believed 
in,  so  they  patched  up  their  quarrel  and  they 
sent  fairies  to  cast  spells,  and  any  amount  of 
people  began  to  be  taken  to  Fairyland,  until  at 
last  every  one  was  forced  to  believe  their  evidence 
and  to  say  that  Fairyland  existed." 

"  Were  they  glad  ?  "  said  the  child. 

"Who?"  said  I;  "the  witnesses  who  were 
thus  taken  away  and  shown  Fairyland  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child.  "  They  ought  to  have 
been  glad." 

"Well,  they  weren't .'"  said  I.  "They  were  as 
sick  as  dogs.  Not  one  of  them  but  got  into 
some  dreadful  trouble.  From  one  his  wife  ran 
away,  another  starved  to  death,  a  third  killed 
himself,  a  fourth  was  drowned  and  then  burned 
upon  the  seashore,  a  fifth  went  mad  (and  so  did 
several  others),  and  as  for  poverty,  and  all  the 
misfortunes  that  go  with  it,  it  simply  rained  upon 
the  people  who  had  been  to  Fairyland." 

"Why?  "  said  the  child,  greatly  troubled. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  I,  "that  is  what  none  of  us  know, 
but  so  it  is,  if  they  take  you  to  Fairyland  you  are 
in  for  a  very  bad  business  indeed.  There  is  only 
one  way  out  of  it." 

"And  what  is  that?"  said  the  child,  in- 
terested. 

228 


The  Way  to  Fairyland 

"Washing/'  said -I,  "washing  in  cold  water. 
It  has  been  proved  over  and  over  again." 

"Then/'  said  the  child  happily,  "they  can 
take  me  to  Fairyland  as  often  as  they  like,  and 
I  shall  not  be  the  worse  for  it,  for  I  am  washed  in 
cold  water  every  day.  What  about  the  other 
way  to  Fairyland  ?  " 

"Oh  that,"  said  I,  "that,  I  think,  is  much  the 
best  way  ;  I've  gone  there  myself." 

"Have  you  really?"  said  the  child,  now 
intensely  interested.  "  That  is  good !  How 
often  have  you  been  there  ?  " 

"Oh  I  can't  tell  you,"  I  said  carelessly,  "but 
at  least  eight  times,  and  perhaps  more,  and  the 
dodge  is,  as  I  told  you,  to  lose  your  way ;  only 
the  great  trouble  is  that  no  one  can  lose  his  way 
on  purpose.  At  first  I  used  to  think  that  one  had 
to  follow  signs.  There  was  an  omnibus  going 
down  the  King's  Road  which  had '  To  the  World's 
End '  painted  on  it.  I  got  into  this  one  day,  and 
after  I  had  gone  some  miles  I  said  to  the  man, 
'  When  do  we  get  to  the  World's  End  ? '  <  Oh/ 
said  he,  'you  have  passed  it  long  ago/  and  he 
rang  a  little  bell  to  make  me  get  out.  So  it  was 
a  fraud.  Another  time  I  saw  another  omnibus 
with  the  words,  '  To  the  Monster,'  and  I  got  into 
that,  but  I  heard  that  it  was  only  a  sort  of  joke, 
and  that  though  the  Monster  was  there  all  right, 
he  was  not  in  Fairyland.  This  omnibus  went 
229 


On  Something 

through  a  very  uninteresting  part  of  London, 
and  Fairyland  was  nowhere  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Another  time  in  the  country  of  France  I  came  upon 
a  printed  placard  which  said :  '  The  excursion 
will  pass  by  the  Seven  Winds,  the  Foolish  Heath, 
and  St.  Martin  under  Heaven.'  This  time  also 
I  thought  I  had  got  it,  but  when  I  looked  at  the 
date  on  the  placard  I  saw  that  the  excursion  had 
started  several  days  before,  so  I  missed  it  again. 
Another  time  up  in  Scotland  I  saw  a  signpost  on 
which  there  was,  'To  the  King's  House  seven 
miles.'  And  some  one  had  written  underneath  in 
pencil:  'And  to  the  Dragon's  Cave  eleven. 
But  nothing  came  of  it.  It  was  a  false  lane. 
After  that  I  gave  up  believing  that  one  could  get 
to  Fairyland  by  signposts  or  omnibuses,  until  one 
day,  quite  by  mistake,  I  chanced  on  the  dodge  of 
losing  one's  way." 

"  How  is  that  done  ?  "  said  the  child. 

"That  is  what  no  one  can  tell  you,"  said  I. 
"  If  people  knew  how  it  was  done  everybody 
would  do  it,  but  the  whole  point  of  losing  your 
way  is  that  you  do  it  by  mistake.  You  must  be 
quite  certain  that  you  have  not  lost  your  way  or 
it  is  no  good.  You  walk  along,  and  you  walk 
along,  and  you  wonder  how  long  it  will  be 
before  you  get  to  the  town,  and  then  instead  of 
getting  to  the  town  at  all,  there  you  are  in 
Fairyland." 

230 


The  Way  to  Fairyland 

"  How  do  you  know  that  you  are  in  Fairy- 
land ?  "  said  the  little  child. 

"  It  depends  how  far  you  get  in/'  said  I.  "  If 
you  get  in  far  enough  trees  and  rocks  change 
into  men,  rivers  talk,  and  voices  of  people  whom 
you  cannot  see  tell  you  all  sorts  of  things  in  loud 
and  clear  tones  close  to  your  ear.  But  if  you 
only  get  a  little  way  inside  then  you  know  that 
you  are  there  by  a  sort  of  wonderment.  The 
things  ought  to  be  like  the  things  you  see  every 
day,  but  they  are  a  little  different,  notably  the 
trees.  It  happened  to  me  once  in  a  town  called 
Lanchester.  A  part  of  that  town  (though  no  one 
would  think  of  it  to  look  at  it)  happens  to  be  in 
Fairyland.  And  there  I  was  received  by  three 
fairies,  who  gave  me  supper  in  an  inn.  And  it 
happened  to  me  once  in  the  mountains  and  once 
it  happened  to  me  at  sea.  I  lost  my  way  and  came 
upon  a  beach  which  was  in  Fairyland.  Another 
time  it  happened  to  me  between  Goodwood  and 
Upwaltham  in  Sussex." 

At  this  moment  the  child's  nurse  came  in  to 
take  it  away,  so  she  came  to  the  point : 

"  How  did  you  know  you  were  in  Fairyland  ?  " 
she  said  doubtfully.  "  Pei'haps  you  are  making 
all  this  up." 

" Nonsense!"  I  said  reprovingly,  "the  only 
people  who  make  things  up  are  little  children, 
for  they  always  tell  lies.  Grown-up  people 
231 


On  Something 

never  tell  lies.  Let  me  tell  you  that  one  always 
knows  when  one  has  been  in  Fairyland  by  the 
feeling  afterwards,  and  because  it  is  impossible  to 
find  it  again." 

The  child  said,  "Very  well,  I  will  believe 
you,"  but  I  could  see  from  the  expression  of  her 
eyes  that  she  was  not  wholly  convinced,  and  that 
in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  does  not  believe 
there  is  any  such  place.  She  will,  however,  if 
she  can  hang  on  another  forty  years,  and  then 
I  shall  have  my  revenge. 


232 


The  Portrait  of  a  Child      *cy       ^ 

T  X  a  garden  which  must,  I  think,  lie  somewhat 
apart  and  enclosed  in  one  of  the  valleys  of 
central  England,  you  came  across  the  English 
grass  in  summer  beneath  the  shade  of  a  tree ; 
you  were  running,  but  your  arms  were  stretched 
before  you  in  a  sort  of  dance  and  balance  as 
though  you  rather  belonged  to  the  air  and  to  the 
growing  things  about  you  and  above  you  than  to 
the  earth  over  which  you  passed ;  and  you  were 
not  three  years  old. 

As,  in  jest,  this  charming  vision  was  recorded 
by  a  camera  which  some  guest  had  with  him,  a 
happy  accident  (designed,  for  all  we  know,  by 
whatever  powers  arrange  such  things,  an  accident 
of  the  instrument  or  of  the  plate  upon  which  your 
small,  happy,  advancing  figure  was  recorded)  so 
chanced  that  your  figure,  when  the  picture  was 
printed,  shone  all  around  with  light. 

I  cannot,  as  I  look  at  it  now  before  me  and  as 
I  write  these  words,  express,  however  much  I 
may  seek  for  expression,  how  great  a  meaning 
underlies  that  accident  nor  how  full  of  fate  and 
of  reason  and  of  suggested  truth  that  aureole 
233 


On  Something 

grows  as  I  gaze.  Your  innocence  is  beatified  by 
it,  and  takes  on  with  majesty  the  glory  which  lies 
behind  all  innocence,  but  which  our  eyes  can 
never  see.  Your  happiness  seems  in  that  mist 
of  light  to  be  removed  and  permanent ;  the  com- 
mon world  in  which  you  are  moving  passes, 
through  this  trick  of  the  lens,  into  a  stronger 
world  more  apt  for  such  a  sight,  and  one  in  which 
I  am  half  persuaded  (as  I  still  look  upon  the 
picture)  blessedness  is  not  a  rare  adventure,  but 
something  native  and  secure. 

Little  child,  the  trick  which  the  camera  has 
played  means  more  and  more  as  I  still  watch  your 
picture,  for  there  is  present  in  that  light  not  only 
blessedness,  but  holiness  as  well.  The  lightness 
of  your  movement  and  of  your  poise  (as  though 
you  were  blown  like  a  blossom  along  the  tops  of 
the  grass)  is  shone  through,  and  your  face,  espe- 
cially its  ready  and  wondering  laughter,  is 
inspired,  as  though  the  Light  had  filled  it  from 
within ;  so  that,  looking  thus,  I  look  not  on,  but 
through.  I  say  that  in  this  portrait  which  I 
treasure  there  is  not  only  blessedness,  but  holi- 
ness as  well — holiness  which  is  the  cause  of 
blessedness  and  which  contains  it,  and  by  which 
secretly  all  this  world  is  sustained. 

Now  there  is  a  third  thing  in  your  portrait, 
little  child.  That  accident  of  light,  light  all 
about  you  and  shining  through  your  face,  is  not 
234 


The  Portrait  of  a  Child 

only  blessed  nor  only  holy,  but  it  is  also  sacred, 
and  with  that  thought  there  returns  to  me  as  I 
look  what  always  should  return  to  man  if  he  is  to 
find  any  stuff  or  profit  in  his  consideration  of 
divine  things.  In  blessedness  there  is  joy  for 
which  here  we  are  not  made,  so  that  we  catch  it 
only  in  glimpses  or  in  adumbrations.  And  in 
holiness,  when  we  perceive  it  we  perceive  some- 
thing far  off;  it  is  that  from  which  we  came  and 
to  which  we  should  return ;  yet  holiness  is  not  a 
human  thing.  But  things  sacred — things  devoted 
to  a  purpose,  things  about  which  there  lies  an 
awful  necessity  of  sacrifice,  things  devoted  and 
necessarily  suffering  some  doom — these  are  cer- 
tainly of  this  world ;  that,  indeed,  all  men  know 
well  at  last,  and  find  it  part  of  the  business 
through  which  they  needs  must  pass.  Human 
memories,  since  they  are  only  memories  ;  human 
attachments,  since  they  are  offered  up  and  end ; 
great  human  fears  and  hopeless  human  longings 
— these  are  sacred  things  attached  to  a  victim 
and  to  a  sacrifice;  and  in  this  picture  of  yours, 
with  the  light  so  glorifying  you  all  round,  no  one 
can  doubt  who  sees  it  but  that  the  sacredness  of 
human  life  will  be  yours  also ;  that  is,  you  must 
learn  how  it  is  offered  up  to  some  end  and  what 
a  sacrifice  is  there. 

I  could  wish,  as  I  consider  this,  that  the  camera 
had  played  no  such  trick,  and  had  not  revealed  in 
235 


On  Something 

that  haze  of  awful  meaning  all  that  lies  beyond 
the  nature  of  you,  child.  But  it  is  a  truth  which 
is  so  revealed ;  and  we  may  not,  upon  a  penalty 
more  terrible  than  death,  neglect  any  ultimate 
truth  concerning  our  mortal  way. 

Your  feet,  which  now  do  not  seem  to  press 
upon  the  lawn  across  which  they  run,  have  to 
go  more  miles  than  you  can  dream  of,  through 
more  places  than  you  could  bear  to  hear,  and 
they  must  be  directed  to  a  goal  which  will  not 
in  your  very  young  delight  be  mentioned  before 
you,  or  of  which,  if  it  is  mentioned,  you  will  not 
understand  by  name  ;  and  your  little  hands  which 
you  bear  before  you  with  the  little  gesture  of 
flying  things,  will  grasp  most  tightly  that  which 
can  least  remain  and  will  attempt  to  fashion 
what  can  never  be  completed,  and  will  caress 
that  which  will  not  respond  to  the  caress.  Your 
eyes,  which  are  now  so  principally  filled  with 
innocence  that  that  bright  quality  drowns  all 
the  rest,  will  look  upon  so  much  of  deadly  suffer- 
ing and  of  misuse  in  men,  that  they  will 
very  early  change  themselves  in  kind;  and  all 
your  face,  which  now  vaguely  remembers  nothing 
but  the  early  vision  from  which  childhood  pro- 
ceeds, will  grow  drawn  and  self-guarded,  and 
will  suffer  some  agonies,  a  few  despairs,  innu- 
merable fatigues,  until  it  has  become  the  face 
of  a  woman  grown.  Nor  will  this  sacred  doom 
236 


The  Portrait  of  a  Child 

about  you,  which  is  that  of  all  mankind,  cease 
or  grow  less  or  be  mitigated  in  any  way ;  it  will 
increase  as  surely  and  as  steadily  as  increase  the 
number  of  the  years,  until  at  last  you  will  lay 
down  the  daylight  and  the  knowledge  of  day- 
lit  things  as  gladly  as  now  you  wake  from  sleep 
to  see  them. 

For  you  are  sacred,  and  all  those  elders  about 
you,  whose  solemn  demeanour  now  and  then 
startles  you  into  a  pretty  perplexity  which  soon 
calls  back  their  smiles,  have  hearts  only  quite 
different  from  your  quite  careless  heart,  because 
they  have  known  the  things  to  which,  in  the 
manner  of  victims,  they  are  consecrated. 

All  that  by  which  we  painfully  may  earn  recti- 
tude and  a  proper  balance  in  the  conduct  of  our 
short  affairs  I  must  believe  that  you  will  prac- 
tise ;  and  I  must  believe,  as  I  look  here  into  your 
face,  seeing  your  confident  advance  (as  though 
you  were  flying  out  from  your  babyhood  into 
young  life  without  any  fear),  that  the  virtues 
which  now  surround  you  in  a  crowd  and  make 
a  sort  of  court  for  you  and  are  your  angels  every 
way,  will  go  along  with  you  and  will  stand  by 
you  to  the  end.  Even  so,  and  the  more  so,  you 
will  find  (if  you  read  this  some  years  hence)  how 
truly  it  is  written.  By  contrast  with  your 
demeanour,  with  your  immortal  hopes,  and  with 
your  pious  efforts  the  world  about  you  will  seem 
237 


On  Something 

darker  and  less  secure  with  every  passing  harvest, 
and  in  proportion  as  you  remember  the  child- 
hood which  has  led  me  so  to  write  of  you,  in 
proportion  as  you  remember  gladness  and  inno- 
cence with  its  completed  joy,  in  that  proportion 
will  you  find  at  least  a  breaking  burden  in  the 
weight  of  this  world. 

Now  you  may  say  to  me,  little  child  (not  now, 
but  later  on),  to  what  purpose  is  all  this  com- 
plaint, and  why  should  you  tell  me  these  things  ? 

It  is  because  in  the  portrait  before  me  the 
holiness,  the  blessedness,  and  therefore  the 
sacredness  are  apparent  that  I  am  writing  as 
I  do.  For  you  must  know  that  there  is  a  false 
way  out  and  a  seeming  relief  for  the  rack  of  human 
affairs,  and  that  this  way  is  taken  by  many. 
Since  you  are  sacred  do  not  take  it,  but  bear  the 
burden.  It  is  the  character  of  whatever  is  sacred 
that  it  does  not  take  that  way ;  but,  like  a  true 
victim,  remains  to  the  end,  ready  to  complete 
the  sacrifice. 

The  way  out  is  to  forget  that  one  is  sacred, 
and  this  men  and  women  do  in  many  ways. 
The  most  of  them  by  way  of  treason.  They 
betray.  They  break  at  first  uneasily,  later  easily, 
and  at  last  unconsciously,  the  word  which  each  of 
us  has  passed  before  He  was  born  in  Paradise. 
All  men  and  all  women  are  conscious  of  that 
word,  for  though  their  lips  cannot  frame  it  here, 
238 


The  Portrait  of  a  Child 

and  though  the  terms  of  the  pledge  are  for- 
gotten, the  memory  of  its  obligation  fills  the 
mind.  But  there  comes  a  day,  and  that  soon 
in  the  lives  of  many,  when  to  break  it  once  is 
to  be  much  refreshed  and  to  seem  to  drop  the 
burden  ;  and  in  the  second  and  the  third  time  it 
is  done,  and  the  fourth  it  is  done  more  easily — 
until  at  last  there  is  no  more  need  for  a  man 
or  a  woman  to  break  that  pledged  word  again 
and  once  again ;  it  is  broken  for  good  and  for  all. 
This  is  one  most  common  way  in  which  the 
sacred  quality  is  lost :  the  way  of  treason.  Round 
about  such  as  choose  this  kind  of  relief  grows 
a  habit  and  an  air  of  treason.  They  betray  all 
things  at  last,  and  even  common  friendship  is  at 
last  no  longer  theirs.  The  end  of  this  false 
issue  is  despair. 

Another  way  is  to  take  refuge  from  ourselves 
in  pleasures,  and  this  is  easily  done,  not  by  the 
worse,  but  by  the  better  sort ;  for  there  are  some, 
some  few,  who  would  never  betray  nor  break 
their  ancient  word,  but  who,  seeing  no  meaning 
in  a  sacrifice  nor  in  a  burden,  escape  from  it 
through  pleasure  as  through  a  drug,  and  this 
pleasure  they  find  in  all  manner  of  things,  and 
always  that  spirit  near  them  which  would  destroy 
their  sacred  mark,  persuades  them  that  they  are 
right,  and  that  in  such  pursuits  the  sacrifice  is 
evaded.  So  some  will  steep  themselves  in 
239 


On  Something 

rhyme,  some  in  landscapes,  some  in  pictures, 
some  in  the  watching  of  the  complexity  and 
change  of  things,  some  in  music,  some  in  action, 
some  in  mere  ease.  It  seems  as  though  the  men 
and  women  who  would  thus  forget  their  sacred- 
ness  are  better  loved  and  better  warned  than 
those  who  take  the  other  path,  for  they  never 
forget  certain  gracious  things  which  should  be 
proper  to  the  mind,  nor  do  they  lose  their  friends. 
But  that  they  have  taken  a  wrong  path  you  may 
easily  perceive  from  this  sign  :  that  these  plea- 
sures, like  any  other  drug,  do  not  feed  or  satisfy, 
but  must  be  increased  with  every  dose,  and  even 
so  soon  pall  and  are  continued  not  because  they 
are  pleasures  any  longer,  but  because,  dull  though 
they  have  become,  without  them  there  is  active 
pain. 

Take  neither  the  one  path  nor  the  other,  but 
retain,  I  beseech  you,  when  the  time  comes,  that 
quality  of  sacredness  of  which  I  speak,  for  there 
is  no  alternative.  Some  trouble  fell  upon  our 
race,  and  all  of  us  must  take  upon  ourselves  the 
business  and  the  burden.  If  you  will  attempt 
any  way  out  at  all  it  will  but  lead  you  to  some 
worse  thing.  We  have  not  all  choices  before 
us,  but  only  one  of  very  few,  and  each  of 
those  few  choices  is  mortal,  and  all  but  one  is 
evil. 

You  should  remember  this  also,  dear  little 
240 


The  Portrait  of  a  Child 

child,  that  at  the  beginning — oh,  only  at  the 
very  beginning  of  life — even  your  reason  that 
God  gave  may  lead  you  wrong.  For  with  those 
memories  strong  upon  you  of  perfect  will,  of 
clear  intelligence,  and  of  harmonious  beauty  all 
about,  you  will  believe  the  world  in  which  you 
stand  to  be  the  world  from  which  you  have  come 
and  to  which  you  are  also  destined.  You  have 
but  to  treat  this  world  for  but  a  very  little  while 
as  though  it  were  the  thing  you  think  it  to  find 
it  is  not  so. 

Do  you  know  that  that  which  smells  most 
strongly  in  this  life  of  immortality,  and  which 
a  poet  has  called  "  the  ultimate  outpost  of 
eternity,"  is  insecure  and  perishes  ?  I  mean  the 
passionate  affection  of  early  youth.  If  that  does 
not  remain,  what  then  do  you  think  can  remain  ? 
I  tell  you  that  nothing  which  you  take  to  be 
permanent  round  about  you  when  you  are  very 
young  is  more  than  the  symbol  or  clothes  of  per- 
manence. Another  poet  has  written,  speaking 
of  the  chalk  hills  : — 

Only  a  little  while  remain 
The  Downs  in  their  solemnity. 

Nor  is  this  saying  forced.  Men  and  women 
cannot  attach  themselves  even  to  the  hills  where 
they  first  played. 

Some    men,    wise    but    unillumined,    and    not 

16  241 


On  Something 

conscious  of  that  light  which  I  here  physically 
see  shining  all  round  and  through  you  in  the 
picture  which  is  before  my  eyes  as  I  write,  have 
said  that  to  die  young  and  to  end  the  business 
early  was  a  great  blessing.  We  do  not  know. 
But  we  do  know  that  to  die  long  after  and  to 
have  gone  through  the  business  must  be  blessed, 
since  blessedness  and  holiness  and  sacrediiess  are 
bound  together  in  one. 

But,  of  these  three,  be  certain  that  sacrediiess 
is  your  chief  business,  blessedness  after  your 
first  childhood  you  will  never  know,  and  holiness 
you  may  only  see  as  men  see  distant  mountains 
lifted  beyond  a  plain ;  it  cannot  be  your  habita- 
tion. Sacredness,  which  is  the  mark  of  that 
purpose  whose  heir  is  blessedness,  whose  end  is 
holiness,  will  be  upon  you  until  you  die ;  main- 
tain it,  and  let  it  be  your  chief  concern,  for 
though  you  neglect  it,  it  will  remain  and  avenge 
itself. 

All  this  I  have  seen  in  your  picture  as  you  go 
across  the  grass,  and  it  was  an  accident  of  the 
camera  that  did  it.  If  any  one  shall  say  these 
things  do  not  attach  to  the  portrait  of  a  child, 
let  him  ask  himself  whether  they  do  not  attach 
to  the  portrait  that  might  be  drawn,  did  human 
skill  suffice,  of  the  life  of  a  woman  or  a  man 
which  springs  from  the  demeanour  of  childhood ; 
or  let  him  ask  himself  whether,  if  a  face  in  old 
242 


The  Portrait  of  a  Child 

age  and  that  same  face  in  childhood  were  equally 
and  as  by  a  revelation  set  down  each  in  its  full 
truth,  and  the  growth  of  the  one  into  the  other 
were  interpreted  by  a  profound  intelligence,  what 
I  have  said  would  not  be  true  of  all  that  little 
passage  of  ours  through  the  daylight. 


243 


On  Experience  ^> 

'"THERE  are  three  phases  in  the  life  of  man, 
so  far  as  his  thoughts  upon  his  surroundings 
are  concerned. 

The  first  of  these  is  the  phase  of  youth,  in 
which  he  takes  certain  matured  things  for 
granted,  and  whether  he  realizes  his  illusion  or 
no,  believes  them  to  be  eternal.  This  phase 
ends  sharply  with  every  man,  by  the  action  of 
one  blow.  Some  essence  is  dissolved,  some  bind- 
ing cordage  snaps,  or  some  one  dies. 

I  say  no  matter  how  clearly  the  reason  of  a 
man  tells  him  that  all  about  him  is  changeable, 
and  that  perfect  and  matured  things  and  char- 
acters upon  whose  perfection  and  maturity  he 
reposes  for  his  peace  must  disappear,  his  attitude 
in  youth  towards  those  things  is  one  of  a  complete 
security  as  towards  things  eternal.  For  the  young 
man,  convinced  as  he  is  that  his  youth  and  he 
himself  are  there  for  ever,  sees  in  one  lasting 
framework  his  father's  garden,  his  mother's  face, 
the  landscape  from  his  windows,  his  friendships, 
and  even  his  life;  the  very  details  of  food,  of 
clothing,  and  of  lesser  custom,  all  these  are  fixed 
244 


On  Experience 

for  him.  Fixed  also  are  the  mature  and  perfect 
things.  This  aged  friend,  in  whose  excellent 
humour  and  universal  science  he  takes  so  con- 
tinual a  delight,  is  there  for  ever.  That  con- 
sidered judgment  of  mankind  upon  such  and 
such  a  troubling  matter,  of  sex,  of  property,  or  of 
political  right,  is  anchored  or  rooted  in  eternity. 
There  comes  a  day  when  by  some  one  experience 
he  is  startled  out  of  that  morning  dream.  It  is 
not  the  first  death,  perhaps,  that  strikes  him,  nor 
the  first  loss — no,  not  even,  perhaps,  the  first  dis- 
covery that  human  affection  also  passes  (though 
that  should  be  for  every  man  the  deepest  lesson 
of  all).  What  wakes  him  to  the  reality  which  is 
for  some  dreadful,  for  others  august,  and  for  the 
faithful  divine,  is  always  an  accident.  One 
death,  one  change,  one  loss,  among  so  many, 
unseals  his  judgment,  and  he  sees  thenceforward, 
nay,  often  from  one  particular  moment  upon 
which  he  can  put  his  finger,  the  doom  which  lies 
upon  all  things  whatsoever  that  live  by  a  material 
change. 

The  second  phase  which  he  next  enters  is  for  a 
thoughtful  man  in  a  sceptical  and  corrupted  age 
the  crucial  phase,  whereby  will  be  determined, 
not  indeed  the  fate  of  his  soul,  but  the  justice, 
and  therefore  the  advantage  to  others,  of  his 
philosophy. 

He  has  done  with  all  illusions  of  permanence 
245 


On  Something 

and  repose.  Henceforward  he  sees  for  himself  a 
definite  end,,  and  the  road  which  used  to  lead 
over  the  hills  and  to  be  lost  beyond  in  the  haze 
of  summer  plains  now  leads  directly  to  a  visible 
place ;  that  place  is  a  cavern  in  the  mountain 
side,  dark  and  without  issue.  He  must  die. 
Henceforward  he  expects  the  passing  of  all  to 
which  he  is  attached,  and  he  is  braced  against 
loss  by  something  lent  to  him  which  is  to  despair 
as  an  angel  is  to  a  demon ;  something  in  the  same 
category  of  emotion,  but  just  and  fortifying,  in- 
stead of  void  and  vain  and  tempting  and  without 
an  end.  A  man  sees  in  this  second  phase  of  his 
experience  that  he  must  lose.  Oh,  he  does  not 
lose  in  a  gamble !  It  is  not  a  question  of  win- 
ning a  stake  or  forfeiting  it,  as  the  vulgar  false- 
hood of  commercial  analogy  would  try  to  make 
our  time  believe.  He  knows  henceforward  that 
there  is  no  success,  no  final  attainment  of  desire, 
because  there  is  no  fixity  in  any  material  thing. 
As  he  sits  at  table  with  the  wisest  and  keenest 
of  his  time,  especially  with  the  old,  hearing  true 
stories  of  the  great  men  who  came  before  him, 
looking  at  well-painted  pictures,  admiring  the 
proper  printing  of  collected  books,  and  praising 
the  just  balance  of  some  classical  verse  or  music 
which  time  has  judged  and  made  worthy,  he  so 
admires  and  enjoys  with  a  full  consciousness  that 
these  things  are  flowing  past  him.  He  cannot 
246 


On  Experience 

rely  ;  he  attempts  no  foothold.  The  equilibrium 
of  his  soul  is  only  to  be  discovered  in  marching 
and  continually  marching.  He  now  knows  that 
he  must  go  onward,  he  may  not  stand,  for  if  he 
did  he  would  fall.  He  must  go  forward  and  see 
the  river  of  things  run  by.  He  must  go  forward 
— but  to  what  goal  ? 

There  is  a  third  phase,  in  which  (as  the  experi- 
ence of  twenty  Christian  centuries  determines) 
that  goal  also  is  discovered,  and  for  some  who  so 
discover  it  the  experience  of  loss  begins  to 
possess  a  meaning. 

What  this  third  phase  is  I  confess  I  do  not 
know,  and  as  I  have  not  felt  it  I  cannot  describe 
it,  but  when  that  third  phase  is  used  as  I  have 
suggested  a  character  of  wisdom  enters  into  those 
so  using  it ;  a  character  of  wisdom  which  is  the 
nearest  thing  our  dull  time  can  show  to  inspira- 
tion and  to  prophecy. 

It  is  to  be  noted  also  that  in  this  third  phase 
of  man's  experience  of  doom  those  who  are  not 
wise  are  most  unwise  indeed ;  and  that  where 
the  age  of  experience  has  not  produced  this  sort 
of  clear  maturity  in  the  spirit,  then  it  produces 
either  despair  or  folly,  or  an  exaggerated  shirking 
of  reality,  which,  being  a  falsehood,  is  wickeder 
than  despair,  and  far  more  inhuman  than  mere 
foolishness.  Thus  those  who  in  the  third  phase 
of  which  I  speak  have  not  attained  the  wisdom 
247 


On  Something 

which  I  here  recognize  will  often  sink  into  a 
passion  of  avarice,  accumulating  wealth  which 
they  cannot  conceivably  enjoy ;  a  stupidity  so 
manifest  that  every  age  of  satire  has  found  it 
the  most  facile  of  commonplaces.  Or,  again, 
those  who  fail  to  find  wisdom  in  that  last  phase 
will  constantly  pretend  an  unreal  world,  making 
plans  for  a  future  that  cannot  be  there.  So  did 
a  man  eleven  years  ago  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Regent  Street,  for  this  man,  being  eighty- 
seven  years  of  age,  wealthy,  and  wholly  devoid 
of  friends,  or  near  kindred,  took  a  flat,  but  he 
insisted  that  the  lease  should  be  one  of  not  less 
than  sixty  years.  In  a  hundred  ways  this  last 
phase  if  it  is  degraded  is  most  degraded ;  and, 
though  it  is  not  worst,  it  is  most  sterile  when  it 
falls  to  a  mere  regret  for  the  past. 

Now  it  is  here  that  the  opposite,  the  wisdom, 
of  old  age  appears ;  for  the  old,  when  they  are 
wise,  are  able  to  point  out  to  men  and  to  women 
of  middle  age  what  these  least  suspect,  and  can 
provide  them  with  a  good  medicine  against  the 
insecurity  of  the  soul.  The  old  in  their  wisdom 
can  tell  those  just  beneath  them  this :  that 
though  all  things  human  pass,  all  bear  their 
fruit.  They  can  say:  "You  believe  that  such 
and  such  a  woman,  with  her  courtesy,  her  travel, 
her  sharp  edge  of  judgment,  her  large  humanity, 
and  her  love  of  the  comedy  of  the  world,  being 
248 


On  Experience 

dead  can  never  be  replaced.  There  are,  grow- 
ing up  around  you,  characters  quite  insufficient, 
and  to  you,  perhaps,  contemptible,  who  will  in 
their  fruiting  display  all  these  things."  There 
never  was,  nor  has  been,  a  time  (say  those  who 
are  acquainted  with  the  great  story  of  Europe) 
when  Christendom  has  failed.  Out  of  dead 
passages  there  has  sprung  up  suddenly,  and  quite 
miraculously,  whatever  was  thought  to  be  lost. 
So  it  has  been  with  our  music,  so  with  the 
splendour  of  our  armies,  so  with  the  fabric  of 
our  temples,  so  with  our  deathless  rhymes.  The 
old,  when  they  are  wise,  can  do  for  men  younger 
than  they  what  history  does  for  the  reader ;  but 
they  can  do  it  far  more  poignantly,  having 
expression  in  their  eyes  and  the  living  tones 
of  a  voice.  It  is  their  business  to  console  the 
world. 


249 


On  Immortality  *^>- 

T  T  ERE  and  there,  scattered  rarely  among  men 
as  men  are  now,  you  will  find  one  man  who 
does  not  pursue  the  same  ends  as  his  fellows ;  but 
in  a  peculiar  manner  leads  his  life  as  though  his 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  some  distant  goal  or  his 
appetites  subjected  to  some  constant  and  indi- 
vidual influence. 

Such  a  man  may  be  doing  any  one  of  many 
things.  He  may  be  a  poet,  and  his  occupation 
may  be  the  writing  of  good  verse,  pleased  at  its 
sound  and  pleased  as  well  by  the  reflection  of 
the  pleasure  it  will  give  to  others.  Or  he  may 
be  devoted,  and  follow  a  creed,  a  single  truth 
or  a  character  which  he  loves,  and  whose  in- 
fluence and  glory  he  makes  it  his  business  to 
propagate.  Or  he  may  be  but  a  worker  in  some 
material,  a  carver  in  wood,  or  a  manager  of 
commercial  affairs,  or  a  governor  and  administrator 
of  men,  and  yet  so  order  his  life  that  his  work 
and  his  material  are  his  object :  not  his  gain  in 
the  end — not  his  appreciable  and  calculable  gain 
at  least  —  nor  his  immediate  and  ephemeral 
pleasures. 

250 


On  Immortality 

Such  men,  if  you  will  examine  them,  will  prove 
intent  upon  one  ultimate  completion  of  their 
being  which  is  also  (whether  they  know  it  or  not) 
a  reward,  and  those  who  have  carefully  con- 
sidered the  matter  and  give  it  expression  say 
that  such  men  are  out  a-hunting  for  Immortality. 

Now  what  is  that  ?  There  was  a  man,  before 
the  Normans  came  to  England,  who  sailed  from 
the  highest  Scandinavian  mountains,  1  think, 
towards  these  shores,  and  landing,  fought  against 
men  and  was  wounded  so  that  he  was  certain  to 
die.  When  they  asked  him  why  he  had  under- 
taken that  adventure,  he  answered :  "  That  my 
name  might  live  between  the  lips  of  men." 

The  young,  the  adventurous,  the  admired — 
how  eagerly  and  how  properly  do  they  not  crave 
for  glory.  Fame  has  about  it  a  divine  some- 
thing as  it  were  an  echo  of  perfect  worship  and 
of  perfect  praise,  which,  though  it  is  itself  im- 
perfect, may  well  deceive  the  young,  the  adven- 
turous, and  the  admired.  How  great  to  think 
that  things  well  done  and  the  enlargement 
of  others  shall  call  down  upon  our  names, 
even  when  all  is  lost  but  the  mere  names,  a 
continuous  and  an  increasing  benediction.  Nay, 
more  than  this  :  how  great  to  think  of  the  noise 
only  of  an  achievement,  and  to  be  sure  that 
the  poem  written,  the  carving  concluded,  or  the 
battle  won,  the  achievement  of  itself,  though 
251 


On  Something 

the  name  of  the  achiever  be  perished  or  un- 
known, shall  awake  those  tremendous  echoes. 

But  wait  a  moment.  What  is  that  thing  which 
so  does  and  so  desires  ?  What  end  does  it  find  in 
glory  ?  It  is  not  the  receiver  of  the  benefit ;  it 
will  not  hear  that  large  volume  of  recognition 
and  of  salute.  Twist  it  how  you  will  no  end  is 
here,  nor  in  such  a  pursuit  is  the  pursuer  satisfied. 

It  is  true  that  men  who  love  to  create  for 
themselves  imaginary  stuff,  and  to  feed  their 
cravings,  if  they  cannot  with  substance  then 
with  dreams,  perpetually  pretend  a  satisfaction 
in  such  acquirements  which  the  years  as  they 
proceed  tell  them  with  increasing  iteration  that 
they  do  not  feel.  The  young,  the  adventurous, 
the  admired,  may  at  first  be  deceived  by  such  a 
glamour,  and  it  is  in  the  providential  scheme  of 
human  affairs,  and  it  is  for  the  good  of  us  all 
that  the  pleasing  cheat  should  last  while  the 
good  things  are  doing.  Thus  do  substantial  verse 
and  noble  sculpture  and  building  whose  stuff  is 
lasting  and  whose  beauty  is  almost  imperishable, 
rise  to  the  advantage  of  mankind — but  oh  !  there 
is  no  lasting  in  the  dream. 

There  comes  a  day  of  truth  inwardly  but 
ineradicably  perceived,  when  such  things,  such 
aspirations,  are  clearly  known  for  what  they  are. 
Of  all  the  affections  that  pass,  of  all  those 
things  which  being  made  by  a  power  itself 
252 


On  Immortality 

perishable,  must  be  unmade  again,  some  may  be 
less,  others  more  lasting,  but  not  one  remains 
for  ever. 

Nor  is  this  all.  What  is  it,  I  say,  which  did 
the  thing  and  suffered  the  desire  ?  Not  the 
receiver,  still  less  the  work  achieved,  it  was  the 
man  that  so  acted  and  so  desired ;  and  that  part 
of  him  which  was  affected  thus  we  call  the  Soul. 
Then,  surely  (one  may  reason)  the  soul  has,  apt 
to  its  own  nature,  a  completion  which  is  also  a 
reward,  and  there  is  something  before  it  which  is 
not  the  symbol  or  the  cheat  of  perfect  praise,  but 
is  perfect  praise  ;  there  is  surely  something  before 
it  which  is  not  the  symbol  or  the  cheat  of  life, 
but  life  completed. 

Now  stand  at  night  beneath  a  clear  heaven 
solemn  and  severe  with  stars,  comprehend  (as  the 
great  achievement  of  our  race  permits  us  now  to 
do)  what  an  emptiness  and  what  a  scale  are  there, 
and  you  will  easily  discover  in  that  one  glance, 
or  you  will  feel  at  least  the  appalling  thing 
which  tempts  men  to  deny  their  immortality. 

There  is  no  man  who  has  closely  inquired  upon 
this,  and  there  is  none  who  has  troubled  himself 
and  admitted  a  reasonable  anxiety  upon  it,  who 
has  not  well  retained  the  nature  of  despair. 
Those  who  approach  their  fellow-beings  with 
assertion  and  with  violence  in  such  a  matter, 
affirming  their  discovery,  their  conviction,  or 
253 


On  Something 

their  acquired  certitude,  do  an  ill  service  to 
their  kind.  It  is  not  thus  that  the  last  things 
should  be  approached  nor  the  most  tremendous 
problem  which  man  is  doomed  to  envisage  be 
propounded  and  solved.  Ah !  the  long  business 
in  this  world !  The  way  in  which  your  deepest 
love  goes  up  in  nothingness  and  breaks  away, 
and  the  way  in  which  the  strongest  and  the  most 
continuous  element  of  your  dear  self  is  dissi- 
pated and  fails  you  in  some  moment ;  if  I  do  not 
understand  these  things  in  a  man  nor  com- 
prehend how  the  turn  of  the  years  can  obscure 
or  obliterate  a  man's  consciousness  of  what  his 
end  should  be,  then  I  act  in  brute  ignorance,  or 
what  is  much  worse,  in  lack  of  charity. 

How  should  you  not  be  persuaded,  ephemeral 
intelligence  ?  Does  not  every  matter  which  you 
have  held  closely  enough  and  long  enough  escape 
you  and  withdraw  ?  Is  not  that  doom  true  of 
things  which  were  knit  into  us,  and  were  of 
necessity,  so  to  speak,  prime  parts  of  our  being  ? 
Is  it  not  true  of  the  network  and  the  structure 
which  supports  whatever  we  are,  and  without 
which  we  cannot  imagine  ourselves  to  be  ?  We 
ourselves  perish.  Of  that  there  is  no  doubt  at 
all.  One  is  here  talking  and  alive.  His  friends 
are  with  him  :  on  the  time  when  they  shall  meet 
again  he  is  utterly  not  there.  The  motionless 
flesh  before  his  mourners  is  nothing.  It  is  not  a 
254 


On  Immortality 

simulacrum,  it  is  not  an  outline,  it  is  not  a  recol- 
lection of  the  man,  but  rather  something  wholly 
gone  useless.  As  for  that  voice,  those  meanings 
in  the  eyes,  and  that  gesture  of  the  hand,  it 
has  suddenly  and  entirely  ceased  to  be. 

Then  how  shall  we  deny  the  dreadful  con- 
clusion (to  which  how  many  elder  civilizations 
have  not  turned  !)  that  we  must  seek  in  vain  for 
any  gift  to  the  giver  for  any  workers'  wage,  or, 
rather,  to  put  it  more  justly,  for  a  true  end  to 
the  life  we  lead.  Yet  it  is  not  so.  The  con- 
clusion is  more  weighty  by  far  that  all  things 
bear  their  fruit :  that  the  comprehender  and  the 
master  of  so  much,  the  very  mind,  suffers  to  no 
purpose  and  in  one  moment  a  tragic,  final,  and  un- 
worthy catastrophe  agrees  with  nothing  other 
that  we  know.  It  is  not  thus  of  the  good  things 
of  the  earth  that  turn  kindly  into  the  earth 
again.  It  cannot  be  thus  with  that  which  makes 
of  all  the  earth  a  subject  thing  for  contemplation 
and  for  description,  for  understanding,  and,  if  it 
so  choose — for  sacrifice. 

Those  of  our  race  who  have  deliberately  looked 
upon  the  scroll  and  found  there  nothing  to  read, 
who  have  lifted  the  curtain  and  found  beyond  it 
nothing  to  see,  have  faced  their  conclusions  with 
a  nobility  which  should  determine  us  ;  for  that 
nobility  does  prove,  or,  if  it  does  not  prove,  com- 
pels us  to  proclaim,  that  the  soul  of  man  which 
255 


On  Something 

breeds  it  has  somewhere  a  lasting  home.  The 
conclusion  is  imperative. 

Let  not  any  one  pretend  in  his  faith  that  his 
faith  is  immediately  evident  and  everywhere 
acceptable.  There  is  in  all  who  pretend  to  judg- 
ment a  sense  of  the  doubt  that  lies  between  the 
one  conviction  and  the  other,  and  all  acknowledge 
that  the  scales  swing  normally  upon  the  beam  for 
normal  men.  But  they  swing — and  one  is  the 
heavier. 

The  poets,  who  are  our  interpreters,  know  well 
and  can  set  forth  the  contrast  between  such 
intimations  and  such  despair. 

The  long  descent  of  wasted  days 
To  these  at  last  have  led  me  down  : 
Remember  that  I  filled  with  praise 
The  meaningless  and  doubtful  ways 
That  lead  to  an  eternal  town. 

Moreover,  since  we  have  spoken  of  the  night 
it  is  only  reasonable  to  consider  the  alternate 
dawn.  The  quality  of  light,  its  merry  action  on 
the  mind,  the  daylit  sky  under  whose  benedic- 
tion we  repose  and  in  which  our  kind  has  always 
seen  the  picture  of  its  final  place :  are  these  then 
visions  and  deceits  ? 


256 


On  Sacramental  Things     ^       ^       -^ 

T  T  is  good  for  a  man's  soul  to  sit  down  in  the 
silence  by  himself  and  to  think  of  those 
things  which  happen  by  some  accident  to  be  in 
communion  with  the  whole  world.  If  he  has  not 
the  faculty  of  remembering  these  things  in  their 
order  and  of  calling  them  up  one  after  another 
in  his  mind,  then  let  him  write  them  down  as 
they  come  to  him  upon  a  piece  of  paper.  They 
will  comfort  him ;  they  will  prove  a  sort  of  solace 
against  the  expectation  of  the  end.  To  consider 
such  things  is  a  sacramental  occupation.  And 
yet  the  more  I  think  of  them  the  less  I  can  quite 
understand  in  what  elements  their  power  consists. 
A  woman  smiling  at  a  little  child,  not  knowing 
that  others  see  her,  and  holding  out  her  hands 
towards  it,  and  in  one  of  her  hands  flowers ;  an 
old  man,  lean  and  active,  with  an  eager  face, 
walking  at  dusk  upon  a  warm  and  windy  evening 
westward  towards  a  clear  sunset  below  dark  and 
flying  clouds  ;  a  group  of  soldiers,  seen  suddenly 
in  manoeuvres,  each  man  intent  upon  his  business, 
all  working  at  the  wonderful  trade,  taking  their 
places  with  exactitude  and  order  and  yet  with 
17  257 


On  Something 

elasticity ;  a  deep,  strong  tide  running  back  to 
the  sea,  going  noiselessly  and  flat  and  black  and 
smooth,  and  heavy  with  purpose  under  an  old 
wall ;  the  sea  smell  of  a  Channel  seaport  town  ; 
a  ship  coming  up  at  one  out  of  the  whole  sea 
when  one  is  in  a  little  boat  and  is  waiting  for  her, 
coming  up  at  one  with  her  great  sails  merry  and 
every  one  doing  its  work,  with  the  life  of  the 
wind  in  her,  and  a  balance,  rhythm,  and  give  in 
all  that  she  does  which  marries  her  to  the  sea — 
whether  it  be  a  fore  and  aft  rig  and  one  sees  only 
great  lines  of  the  white,  or  a  square  rig  and  one 
sees  what  is  commonly  and  well  called  a  leaning 
tower  of  canvas,  or  that  primal  rig,  the  triangular 
sail,  that  cuts  through  the  airs  of  the  world  and 
clove  a  way  for  the  first  adventures,  whatever  its 
rig,  a  ship  so  approaching  an  awaiting  boat  from 
which  we  watch  her  is  one  of  the  things  I  mean. 
I  would  that  the  taste  of  my  time  permitted  a 
lengthy  list  of  such  things  :  they  are  pleasant  to 
remember !  They  do  so  nourish  the  mind !  A 
glance  of  sudden  comprehension  mixed  with 
mercy  and  humour  from  the  face  of  a  lover  or  a 
friend  ;  the  noise  of  wheels  when  the  guns  ai-e 
going  by ;  the  clatter-clank-clank  of  the  pieces 
and  the  shouted  halt  at  the  head  of  the  column ; 
the  noise  of  many  horses,  the  metallic  but  united 
and  harmonious  clamour  of  all  those  ironed  hoofs, 
rapidly  occupying  the  highway ;  chief  and  most 
258 


On  Sacramental  Things 

persistent  memory,  a  great  hill  when  the  morning 
strikes  it  and  one  sees  it  up  before  one  round  the 
turning  of  a  rock  after  the  long  passes  and 
despairs  of  the  night. 

When  a  man  has  journeyed  and  journeyed 
through  those  hours  in  which  there  is  no  colour 
or  shape,  all  along  the  little  hours  that  were  made 
for  sleep  and  when,  therefore,  the  waking  soul 
is  bewildered  or  despairs,  the  morning  is  always 
a  resurrection — but  especially  when  it  reveals  a 
height  in  the  sky. 

This  last  picture  I  would  particularly  cherish, 
so  great  a  consolation  is  it,  and  so  permanent  a 
grace  does  it  lend  later  to  the  burdened  mind  of 
a  man. 

For  when  a  man  looks  back  upon  his  many 
journeys— so  many  rivers  crossed,  and  more  than 
one  of  them  forded  in  peril ;  so  many  swinging 
mountain  roads,  so  many  difficult  steeps  and  such 
long  wastes  of  plains — of  all  the  pictures  that 
impress  themselves  by  the  art  or  kindness  of 
whatever  god  presides  over  the  success  of  jour- 
neys, no  picture  more  remains  than  that  picture 
of  a  great  hill  when  the  day  first  strikes  it  after 
the  long  burden  of  the  night. 

Whatever  reasons  a  man  may  have  for  occupy- 
ing the  darkness  with  his  travel  and  his  weariness, 
those  reasons  must  be  out  of  the  ordinary  and 
must  go  with  some  bad  strain  upon  the  mind. 
259 


On  Something 

Perhaps  one  undertook  the  march  from  an  evil 
necessity  under  the  coercion  of  other  men,  or 
perhaps  in  terror,  hoping  that  the  darkness  might 
hide  one,  or  perhaps  for  cool,  dreading  the  un- 
natural heat  of  noon  in  a  desert  land ;  perhaps 
haste,  which  is  in  itself  so  wearying  a  thing, 
compelled  one,  or  perhaps  anxiety.  Or  perhaps, 
most  dreadful  of  all,  one  hurried  through  the 
night  afoot  because  one  feared  what  otherwise 
the  night  would  bring,  a  night  empty  of  sleep 
and  a  night  whose  dreams  were  waking  dreams 
and  evil. 

But  whatever  prompts  the  adventure  or  the 
necessity,  when  the  long  burden  has  been  borne, 
and  when  the  turn  of  the  hours  has  come ;  when 
the  stars  have  grown  paler ;  when  colour  creeps 
back  greyly  and  uncertainly  to  the  earth,  first 
into  the  greens  of  the  high  pastures,  then  here 
and  there  upon  a  rock  or  a  pool  with  reeds,  while 
all  the  air,  still  cold,  is  full  of  the  scent  of  morn- 
ing ;  while  one  notices  the  imperceptible  disap- 
pearance of  the  severities  of  Heaven  until  at  last 
only  the  morning  star  hangs  splendid ;  when  in 
the  end  of  that  miracle  the  landscape  is  fully 
revealed,  and  one  finds  into  what  country  one 
has  come ;  then  a  great  hill  before  one,  losing 
the  forests  upwards  into  rock  and  steep  meadow 
upon  its  sides,  and  towering  at  last  into  the  peaks 
and  crests  of  the  inaccessible  places,  gives  a  soul 
260 


On  Sacramental  Things 

to  the  new  land.  .  .  .  The  sun,  in  a  single 
moment  and  with  the  immediate  summons  of  a 
trumpet-call,  strikes  the  spear-head  of  the  high 
places,  and  at  once  the  valley,  though  still  in 
shadow,  is  transfigured,  and  with  the  daylight  all 
manner  of  things  have  come  back  to  the  world. 

Hope  is  the  word  which  gathers  the  origins  of 
those  things  together,  and  hope  is  the  seed  of 
what  they  mean,  but  that  new  light  and  its  new 
quality  is  more  than  hope.  Livelihood  is  come 
back  with  the  sunrise,  and  the  fixed  certitude  of 
the  soul ;  number  and  measure  and  comprehen- 
sion have  returned,  and  a  just  appreciation  of  all 
reality  is  the  gift  of  the  new  day.  Glory  (which, 
if  men  would  only  know  it,  lies  behind  all  true 
certitude)  illumines  and  enlivens  the  seen  world, 
and  the  living  light  makes  of  the  true  things 
now  revealed  something  more  than  truth  abso- 
lute ;  they  appear  as  truth  acting  and  creative. 

This  first  shaft  of  the  sun  is  to  that  hill  and 
valley  what  a  word  is  to  a  thought.  It  is  to  that 
hill  and  valley  what  verse  is  to  the  common  story 
told  ;  it  is  to  that  hill  and  valley  what  music  is  to 
verse.  And  there  lies  behind  it,  one  is  very  sure, 
an  infinite  progress  of  such  exaltations,  so  that 
one  begins  to  understand,  as  the  pure  light 
shines  and  grows  and  as  the  limit  of  shadow 
descends  the  vast  shoulder  of  the  steep,  what 
has  been  meant  by  those  great  phrases  which 
261 


On   Something 

still  lead  on,  still  comfort,  and  still  make  darkly 
wise,  the  uncomforted  wondering  of  mankind. 
Such  is  the  famous  phrase:  "Eye  has  not  seen  nor 
ear  heard,  nor  can  it  enter  into  the  heart  of  man 
what  things  God  has  prepared  for  those  that 
serve  Him." 

So  much,  then,  is  conveyed  by  a  hill- top  at 
sunrise  when  it  comes  upon  the  traveller  or  the 
soldier  after  the  long  march  of  a  night,  the  bend- 
ing of  the  shoulders,  and  the  emptiness  of  the  dark. 

Many  other  things  put  one  into  communion 
with  the  whole  world. 

Who  does  not  remember  coming  over  a  lifting 
road  to  a  place  where  the  ridge  is  topped,  and 
where,  upon  the  further  side,  a  broad  landscape, 
novel  or  endeared  by  memory  (for  either  is  a 
good  thing),  bursts  upon  the  seized  imagination 
as  a  wave  from  the  open  sea,  swelling  up  an 
inland  creek,  breaks  and  bursts  upon  the  rocks  of 
the  shore  ?  There  is  a  place  where  a  man  passes 
from  the  main  valley  of  the  Rhone  over  into  the 
valley  of  the  Isere,  and  where  the  Gresivandan 
so  suddenly  comes  upon  him.  Two  gates  of  lime- 
stone rock,  high  as  the  first  shoulders  of  the 
mountains,  lead  into  the  valley  which  they 
guard ;  it  is  a  province  of  itself,  a  level  floor  of 
thirty  miles,  nourished  by  one  river,  and  walled 
in  up  to  the  clouds  on  either  side. 

Or,  again,  in  the  champagne  country,  moving 
262 


On  Sacramental  Things 

between  great  blocks  of  wood  in  the  Forest  of 
Rheims  and  always  going  upward  as  the  ride 
leads  him,  a  man  comes  to  a  point  whence  he 
suddenly  sees  all  that  vast  plain  of  the  invasions 
stretching  out  to  where,  very  far  off  against  the 
horizon,  two  days  away,  twin  summits  mark  the 
whole  site  sharply  with  a  limit  as  a  frame  marks 
a  picture  or  a  punctuation  a  phrase. 

There  is  another  place  more  dear  to  me,  but 
which  I  doubt  whether  any  other  but  a  native  of 
that  place  can  know.  After  passing  through  the 
plough  lands  of  an  empty  plateau,  a  traveller 
breaks  through  a  little  fringe  of  chestnut  hedge 
and  perceives  at  once  before  him  the  wealthiest 
and  the  most  historical  of  European  things,  the 
chief  of  the  great  capitals  of  Christendom  and  the 
arena  in  which  is  now  debated  (and  has  been  for 
how  long  !)  the  Faith,  the  chief  problem  of  this 
world. 

Apart  from  landscape  other  things  belong  to 
this  contemplation  :  Notes  of  music,  and,  stronger 
even  than  repeated  and  simple  notes  of  music,  a 
subtle  scent  and  its  association,  a  familiar  printed 
page.  Perhaps  the  test  of  these  sacramental 
things  is  their  power  to  revive  the  past. 

There  is  a  story  translated  into  the  noblest  of 
English  writing  by  Dasent.     It  is  to  be  found  in 
his   "Tales  from  the  Norse."     It  is  called  the 
Story  of  the  Master  Maid. 
263 


On  Something 

A  man  had  found  in  his  youth  a  woman  on  the 
Norwegian  hills  :  this  woman  was  faery,  and 
there  was  a  spell  upon  her.  But  he  won  her  out 
of  it  in  various  ways,  and  they  crossed  the  sea 
together,  and  he  would  bring  her  to  his  father's 
house,  but  his  father  was  a  King.  As  they  went 
over-sea  together  alone,  he  said  and  swore  to  her 
that  he  would  never  forget  how  they  had  met 
and  loved  each  other  without  warning,  but  by  an 
act.  of  God,  upon  the  Dovrefjeld.  Come  near  his 
father's  house,  the  ordinary  influences  of  the 
ordinary  day  touched  him ;  he  bade  her  enter  a 
hut  and  wait  a  moment  until  he  had  warned  his 
father  of  so  strange  a  marriage ;  she,  however, 
gazing  into  his  eyes,  and  knowing  how  the  divine 
may  be  transformed  into  the  earthly,  quite  as 
surely  as  the  earthly  into  the  divine,  makes  him 
promise  that  he  will  not  eat  human  food.  He 
sits  at  his  father's  table,  still  steeped  in  her  and 
in  the  seas.  He  forgets  his  vow  and  eats  human 
food,  and  at  once  he  forgets. 

Then  follows  much  for  which  I  have  not  space, 
but  the  woman  in  the  hut  by  her  magic  causes 
herself  to  be  at  last  sent  for  to  the  father's 
palace.  The  young  man  sees  her,  and  is  only 
slightly  troubled  as  by  a  memory  which  he 
cannot  grasp.  They  talk  together  as  strangers ; 
but  looking  out  of  the  window  by  accident  the 
King's  son  sees  a  bird  and  its  mate ;  he  points 
264 


On  Sacramental  Things 

them  out  to  the  woman,  and  she  says  suddenly : 
"  So  was  it  with  you  and  me  high  up  upon  the 
Dovrefjeld."  Then  he  remembers  all. 

Now  that  story  is  a  symbol,  and  tells  the 
truth.  We  see  some  one  thing  in  this  world, 
and  suddenly  it  becomes  particular  and  sacra- 
mental ;  a  woman  and  a  child,  a  man  at  evening, 
a  troop  of  soldiers  ;  we  hear  notes  of  music,  we 
smell  the  smell  that  went  with  a  passed  time,  or 
we  discover  after  the  long  night  a  shaft  of  light 
upon  the  tops  of  the  hills  at  morning  :  there  is  a 
resurrection,  and  we  are  refreshed  and  renewed. 

But  why  all  these  things  are  so  neither  I  nor 
any  other  man  can  tell. 


265 


In   Patria         ^>       *^       x^       ^>       "^ 

"T^HERE  is  a  certain  valley,  or  rather  profound 
cleft,  through  the  living  rock  of  certain 
savage  mountains  through  which  there  roars  and 
tumbles  in  its  narrow  trench  the  Segre,  here  but 
a  few  miles  from  its  rising  in  the  upland  grass. 

This  cleft  is  so  disposed  that  the  smooth  lime- 
stone slabs  of  its  western  wall  stand  higher  than 
the  gloomy  steps  of  cliff  upon  its  eastern,,  and 
thus  these  western  cliffs  take  the  glare  of  the 
morning  sunlight  upon  them,  or  the  brilliance  of 
the  moon  when  she  is  full  or  waning  in  the  first 
part  of  her  course  through  the  night. 

The  only  path  by  which  men  can  go  down  that 
gorge  clings  to  the  eastern  face  of  the  abyss  and 
is  for  ever  plunged  in  shadow.  Down  this  path 
I  went  very  late  upon  a  summer  night,  close  upon 
midnight,  and  the  moon  just  past  the  full.  The 
air  was  exceedingly  clear  even  for  that  high 
place,  and  the  moon  struck  upon  the  limestone  of 
the  sheer  opposing  cliffs  in  a  manner  neither 
natural  nor  pleasing,  but  suggesting  horror,  and, 
as  it  were,  something  absolute,  too  simple  for 
mankind. 

266 


In  Patria 

It  was  not  cold,  but  there  were  no  crickets  at 
such  a  level  in  the  mountains,  nor  any  vegetation 
there  except  a  brush  here  and  there  clinging 
between  the  rocks  and  finding  a  droughty  rooting 
in  their  fissures.  Though  the  map  did  not  include 
this  gorge,  I  could  guess  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  me,  save  by  following  that  dreadful  path 
all  night,  to  find  a  village,  and  therefore  I  peered 
about  in  the  dense  shadow  as  I  went  for  one  of 
those  overhanging  rocks  which  are  so  common  in 
that  region,  and  soon  I  found  one.  It  was  a 
refuge  better  than  most  that  I  had  known  during 
a  lonely  travel  of  three  days,  for  the  whole  bank 
was  hollowed  in,  and  there  was  a  distinct,  if 
shallow,  cave  bordering  the  path.  Into  this, 
therefore,  I  went  and  laid  down,  wrapping  myself 
round  in  a  blanket  I  had  brought  from  the  plains 
beyond  the  mountains,  and,  with  my  loaf  and 
haversack  and  a  wine-skin  that  I  carried  for  a 
pillow,  I  was  very  soon  asleep. 


When  I  woke,  which  I  did  with  suddenness,  it 
seemed  to  me  to  have  turned  uncommonly  cold, 
and  when  I  stepped  out  from  my  blanket  (for 
I  was  broad  awake)  the  cold  struck  me  still  more 
nearly,  and  was  not  natural  in  such  a  place.  But 
I  knew  how  a  mist  will  gather  suddenly  upon 
these  hills,  and  I  went  out  and  stood  upon  the 
267 


On   Something 

path  to  see  what  weather  the  hour  had  brought 
me.  The  sky,  the  narrow  strip  of  sky  above  the 
gorge,  was  filled  with  scud  flying  so  low  that  now 
and  then  bulges  or  trails  of  it  would  strike  against 
that  western  cliff  of  limestone  and  wreath  down 
it,  and  lift  and  disappear,  but  fast  as  the  scud 
was  moving  there  was  no  noise  of  wind.  I  seemed 
not  to  have  slept  long,  for  the  moon  was  still 
riding  in  heaven,  though  her  light  now  came  in 
rapid  waxing  and  waning  between  the  shreds  of 
the  clouds.  Beneath  me  a  little  angrier  than  be- 
fore (so  that  I  thought  to  myself,  "  Up  in  the 
hills  it  has  been  raining")  roared  the  Segre. 

As  I  stood  thus  irresolute  and  quite  awakened 
from  sleep,  I  saw  to  my  right  the  figure  of  a  little 
man  who  beckoned.  No  fear  took  me  as  I  saw 
him,  but  a  good  deal  of  wonder,  for  he  was  oddly 
shaped,  and  in  the  darkness  of  that  pathway 
I  could  not  see  his  face.  But  in  his  presence  by 
some  accident  of  the  mind  many  things  changed 
their  significance  :  the  gorge  became  personal  to 
me,  the  river  a  voice,  the  fitful  moonlight  a  warn- 
ing, and  it  seemed  as  though  some  safety  was  to 
be  sought,  or  some  certitude,  upwards,  whence 
I  had  come,  and  I  felt  oddly  as  though  the  little 
figure  were  a  guide. 

He  was  so   short   as    I   watched   him   that    I 
thought  him  almost  a  dwarf,  though  I  have  seen 
men  as  small  guiding  the  mules  over  the  breaches 
268 


In  Patria 

in  the  ridge  of  the  hills.  He  was  hunchback,  or 
the  great  pack  he  was  carrying  made  him  seem  so. 
His  thin  legs  were  long  for  his  body,  and  he 
walked  too  rapidly,  with  bent  knees;  his  right 
hand  he  leant  upon  a  great  sapling ;  upon  his 
head  was  a  very  wide  hat,  the  stuff  of  which 
I  could  not  see  in  the  darkness.  Now  and  again 
he  would  turn  and  beckon  me,  and  he  always 
went  on  a  little  way  before.  As  for  me,  partly 
because  he  beckoned,  but  more  because  I  felt 
prescient  of  a  goal,  I  followed  him. 

No  mountain  path  seems  the  same  when  you 
go  up  it  and  when  you  go  down  it.  This  it  was 
which  rendered  unfamiliar  to  me  the  shapes  of 
the  rocks  and  the  turnings  of  the  gorge  as  I 
hurried  behind  my  companion.  With  every  pass- 
ing moment,  moreover,  the  light  grew  less  secure, 
the  scud  thickened,  and  as  we  rose  towards  the 
lower  level  of  those  clouds  the  mass  of  them  grew 
more  even,  until  at  last  the  path  and  some  few 
yards  of  the  emptiness  which  sank  away  to  our 
left  was  all  one  could  discern.  The  mist  was  full 
of  a  diffused  moonlight,,  but  it  was  dense.  I  won- 
dered when  we  should  strike  out  of  the  gorge 
and  begin  to  find  the  upland  grasses  that  lead 
toward  the  highest  summits  of  those  hills,  for 
thither  I  was  sure  were  we  bound. 

Soon  I  began  to  recognize  that  easier  trend  in 
the  rock  wall,  those  increasing  and  flattened 
269 


On  Something 

gullies  which  mark  the  higher  slope.  Here  and 
there  an  unmelted  patch  of  snow  appeared, 
grass  could  be  seen,  and  at  last  we  were  upon 
the  roll  of  the  high  land  where  it  runs  up 
steeply  to  the  ridge  of  the  chain.  Moss  and 
the  sponging  of  moisture  in  the  turf  were  be- 
neath our  feet,  the  path  disappeared,  and  our 
climb  got  steeper  and  steeper ;  and  still  the 
little  man  went  on  before,  pressing  eagerly  and 
breasting  the  hill.  I  neither  felt  fatigue  nor 
noticed  that  I  did  not  feel  it.  The  extreme 
angle  of  the  slope  suited  my  mood,  nor  was  I 
conscious  of  its  danger,  though  its  fantastic 
steepness  exhilarated  me  because  it  was  so  novel 
to  be  trying  such  things  at  night  in  such  a 
weather.  The  moon,  I  think,  must  by  this  time 
have  been  near  its  sinking,  for  the  mist  grew 
full  of  darkness  round  about  us,  and  at  last  it 
was  altogether  deep  night.  I  could  see  my 
companion  only  as  a  blur  of  difference  in  the 
darkness,  but  even  as  this  change  came  I  felt 
the  steepness  relax  beneath  my  climbing  feet, 
the  round  level  of  the  ridge  was  come,  and  soon 
again  we  were  hurrying  across  it  until  there 
came,  in  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  a  moment  in 
which  my  companion  halted,  as  men  who  know 
the  mountains  halt  when  they  reach  an  edge 
below  which  they  know  the  land  to  break 
away. 

270 


In  Patria 

He  was  waiting,  and  I  waited  with  him :  we 
had  not  long  so  to  stand. 

The  mist  which  so  often  lifts  as  one  passes  the 
crest  of  the  hills  lifted  for  us  also,  and,  below,  it 
was  broad  day. 

Ten  thousand  feet  below,  at  the  foot  of  forest 
cascading  into  forest,  stretched  out  into  an  end- 
less day,  was  the  Weald.  There  were  the  places 
I  had  always  known,  but  not  as  I  had  known 
them  :  they  were  in  another  air.  There  was  the 
ridge,  and  the  river  valley  far  off  to  the  east- 
ward, and  Pasham  Pines,  Amberley  wild  brooks, 
and  Petworth  the  little  town,  and  I  saw  the 
Rough  clearly,  and  the  hills  out  beyond  the 
county,  and  beyond  them  farther  plains,  and  all 
the  fields  and  all  the  houses  of  the  men  I  knew. 
Only  it  was  much  larger,  and  it  was  more  inti- 
mate, and  it  was  farther  away,  and  it  was 
certainly  divine. 

A  broad  road  such  as  we  have  not  here  and 
such  as  they  have  not  in  those  hills,  a  road  for 
armies,  sank  back  and  forth  in  great  gradients 
down  to  the  plain.  These  and  the  forests  were 
foreign ;  the  Weald  below,  so  many  thousand 
feet  below,  was  not  foreign  but  transformed. 
The  dwarf  went  down  that  road.  I  did  not 
follow  him.  I  saw  him  clearly  now.  His  curious 
little  coat  of  mountain  stuff,  his  thin,  bent  legs 
walking  rapidly,  and  the  chestnut  sapling  by 
271 


On  Something 

which  he  walked,  holding  it  in  his  hand  by  the 
middle.  I  could  see  the  brown  colour  of  it,  and 
the  shininess  of  the  bark  of  it,  and  the  ovals 
of  white  where  the  branchlings  had  been  cut 
away.  So  I  watched  him  as  he  went  down  and 
down  the  road.  He  never  once  looked  back 
and  he  no  longer  beckoned  me. 

In  a  moment,  before  a  word  could  form  in 
the  mind,  the  mist  had  closed  again  and  it  was 
mortally  cold ;  and  with  that  cold  there  came 
to  me  an  appalling  knowledge  that  I  was  alone 
upon  such  a  height  and  knew  nothing  of  my 
way.  The  hand  which  I  put  to  my  shoulder 
where  my  blanket  was  found  it  wringing  wet. 
The  mist  got  greyer,  my  mind  more  confused 
as  I  struggled  to  remember,  and  then  I  woke 
and  found  I  was  still  in  the  cave.  All  that 
business  had  been  a  dream,  but  so  vivid  that  I 
carried  it  all  through  the  day,  and  carry  it  still. 

It  was  the  very  early  morning ;  the  gorge  was 
full  of  mist,  the  Segre  made  a  muffled  roaring 
through  such  a  bank  of  cloud ;  the  damp  of  the 
mist  was  on  everything.  The  stones  in  the 
pathway  glistened,  the  air  was  raw  and  fresh, 
awaiting  the  rising  of  the  sun.  I  took  the 
path  and  went  downward. 


WILLIAM    BRENDON    AND    SON,    LTD.    PRINTERS,    PLYMOUTH 


3NAL  U8RARY  FACILITY 


A     000135114     7 


PINE  BOOKS 

703  T-2  w.  «TH  ST. 

LOS   ANGELES 


